


Crepuscolo Sul Mare

by SpicefullyYours



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Cunnilingus, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Female Reader, LMAO, Lust at First Sight, No beta reader, Not Beta Read, Oral Sex, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Reader is AFAB - Freeform, Reader-Insert, Romance, Rough Sex, Sex, Sex first plot later, Smut, Some Plot, Tags May Change, Vaginal Fingering, Warnings May Change, reader is shamefully horny for ezio, some canon divergence, we riskin it all
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:15:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 23,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23741407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpicefullyYours/pseuds/SpicefullyYours
Summary: As a doctor, trouble always found its way to you, and the mysterious hooded man was no exception.
Relationships: Ezio Auditore da Firenze & Reader, Ezio Auditore da Firenze/Reader, Ezio Auditore da Firenze/You
Comments: 84
Kudos: 172





	1. Fleeting

**Author's Note:**

> re-playing assassin's creed 2 + the chase scene in ocean's twelve = this, LMAO
> 
> would recommend listening to crepuscolo sul mare while reading, since it's inspired by said chase scene (v short) !  
> link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-hNbw5_HnC0
> 
> enjoy~

_“Fresh produce for your daily meals, with prices to beat!”_

Strolling the streets of Firenze, you can’t help but think that today will be a good day. The sun shines brighter and warmer than usual, adding to the atmosphere of the markets bustling with life. Vegetable and meat stands, crowded by customers and passerbys, and the occasional _‘Prices so low, you won’t believe your eyes!’_ from a blacksmith nearby. The working life in your neighbourhood welcomed you, surging through you as you thought of all the possibilities in your life before you. 

_It’s a good day_ , you muse as you weave yourself between others, basket in hand. Despite the atmosphere, you were well on your way to your mentor’s shack on the countryside outside the city’s walls. As a healer by trade, you relied on her for the natural ingredients, liquids, and ointments she taught you how to make. Like you, the old woman was a healer herself, but kept to herself at her shack. To many, she was a sweet lady with a knack for selling herbs and other natural ingredients. To you, she was a family friend skilled in the healing arts and crafting medicine. You feel at ease today, knowing you’d spend time with a woman you trust and not having to dress any differently to conceal your gender since it’s your day off. 

Your mentor disagreed with your choice to be a travelling doctor, on the streets like the male doctors who donned their dark cloaks and beaked mask -- but she understood and supported you regardless. There was no stopping you, on her end. It is easier to run this career and bask in your own expertise without anyone second guessing it because of your gender. It didn’t help that you could face prosecution for technically being denied a licence to practice. Not much was shared between you and a patient when you worked. You were curt, blunt to an extent most were not accustomed to. And so far, it worked out well for you. 

You thank the vendor as you place some fruits and vegetables in your basket, turning around to continue your trek to the countryside before stopping abruptly at the shadow of a figure running on top of you. You turn and gawk at the sight. 

Up above on the rooftops, you see something -- a hooded man, rather -- running and jumping onto the next roof with ease. You look behind him and see a guard chasing him, answering the question you had. He stopped and moved in one direction before quickly resuming his path, swiftly faking out the guard before running off again. The guard, tripping over the roof tiles and clearly outmatched, gave up.

“He could hurt somebody, pulling stunts like that!” A man exclaimed next to you. For his own sake, you hoped the hooded man was as careful as he was skilled in evading a city guard.

 _A good, albeit weird day_ , you muse again. You head to a tailor this time, to purchase vials for medicine. With the markets already being busy, it was worse now at high noon, a line of up to ten people before you. You internally groan at the sight of the vendor’s shop. Hopefully, it doesn’t take too long. 

God must have heard you and laughed, jinxing you with the exact opposite of your wish. A very demanding customer was at the front, elongating your wait time to roughly ten minutes without anyone moving up since you entered the line. You know your mentor is more patient than you, but you hope she doesn’t have anywhere else to be on this day. Ten minutes isn’t that long, you suppose, but _Dios_ , you’re already dreading the wait. At one point, you actually _consider_ making small talk with the people in line. You shake your head and pinch the bridge of your nose, thinking about the hooded man and why he’d even be up on the rooftops. 

“ _Eccolo!_ Get him!”

You turn to the sound, almost surprised by the sight. As if you summoned him yourself, there he was. The same, hooded man from the rooftops, this time in the streets before you. Your heart flutters for a second when you see him sprinting in your direction, three guards right on his tail. Quickly turning to one side, the man maneuvered over and through a vendor stand, resulting in one of the guards falling right into the fish barrels by the stand. _Two more to lose_. He attempts to pull a similar maneuver, but the remaining guards do not yield and catch onto his strategy easily. Much to the hooded man’s chagrin, the two guards split up. You fail to notice one of them disappearing while the other one continues to pursue him. The hooded man dashes to a nearby ladder, jumping off to the side midway. The guard stumbles as he climbs back down.

“Isn’t that illegal?” The question comes from a man beside you, as all nearby gawk and ask similar questions in awe. You ignore it, stunned by the hooded man’s agility. 

Now, he’s heading back in your direction and closes the distance between you, with an ease the guard doesn’t share as he wheezes behind him with a weapon drawn. As he passes, you catch a glimpse of his face beneath his white hood. You’re rooted in the spot as he runs past you, head following his movement and heart skipping a beat as he turns to you briefly. You swear you see him smirk at you when turns to you again. Were you seeing things? 

His chase is cut short as the second guard reappears with more guards in tow, all with smug looks on their faces. The hooded man stops, looking back and forth between the group of guards moving to surround him before his eyes settle on you once more. At this, you realize the line to the tailor has dispersed, they’re now behind you crowding among themselves while keeping their distance from the scene. Being closer to the spectacle, you’re the only one he could be looking at. You’re definitely not seeing things. There’s no mistaking the cocky smile directed at you.

 _Dios_ , this man is trouble. 

Before you know it, smoke is engulfing the market. You back away and shove past the people behind you, running to the nearest clear space while your free arm serves as a mask against the smoke. Once you’re in the clear and outside the market, you decide to head straight to your mentor’s shack. You could get the vials another, less hectic, day. You almost reach the gates of Firenze when you hear footsteps on the tiles of a house beside you. 

“I normally don’t make trouble with the law,” you hear a male voice behind, or rather, above you. The hooded man is atop a house, striding at your pace while you continue. Suddenly, it’s difficult to maintain your composure. His voice was deeper and smoother than you expected. Yet, in a way, just as attractive as he’s mysterious. You can't see much of his face, but you just _know_ he’s attractive. 

“Somehow, I find that hard to believe,” you retort, resisting the urge to look at him lest you want him to see how hard you’re blushing. 

The man scoffs with a smile, placing a hand on his chest. “You wound me, _bella_.”

There it is again, that wonderful voice you could keep listening to. His compliment went straight to your belly, butterflies speeding up at the thrum of your heart. The playful lilt of his voice made you feel things you wouldn’t ever confess at the church. The things you suddenly wanted to do to this man. Is he as irresistible as his voice? You supposed you probably wouldn’t find out any time soon, but you want to keep this going. You want to talk to him as much as you can before you take your leave. You match his playful tone, “Am I wrong, _signore_?”

“You’ve seen right through me,” a small laugh escapes his lips as he says this. It’s slightly strained, as if he hasn’t laughed in a long time or he’s holding back to not reveal anything. “Tell me something.” 

“Something.” 

He laughs a bit longer, amused by your deadpan. “Will I ever see you again?”

At this, you stop in your tracks. You’re thankful he asked first. You weren’t sure if you’d muster up the nerve to ask him at all without seeming over eager and coming on too strong. Taking sight of the exit right across you, you turn up at him. 

“Forgive me for being forward --”

“If you’re here for the next few weeks, yes.” You smile up at him, not missing the way the words began to register in his mind. His eyes shifted from you to the gates, then back to you. With a knowing look, he reciprocated your smile. It was a confident smile, still, but sweet and welcoming unlike the cocky one you witnessed earlier. 

“Then I am a lucky man.” 


	2. Amorous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The hooded man graces your presence twice in one day. The second time, he has no idea it's you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nsfw intro !! feel free to scroll past it if you wish

_“Ti piace questo, vero?"_

You know you can’t see him, but the hooded man’s voice rings clear in the dark, his hot breath on your ear. He asks you if you like what he’s doing to you. _Yes_ , is what you want to say so badly, you like this - you _want_ this. With his fingers in your mouth, you can’t, but you don’t mind in the slightest. He moans deeply at the swipe of your tongue and removes it reluctantly, replacing them with his own soft lips. He doesn’t linger in that spot very long, moving lower.

As he leaves a path of heated kisses down to the spot just below your ear, you almost ask yourself how he even found your makeshift home. After a swift internal conflict, you realize you just don’t care. His kisses and touches are downright sinful. One of his hands cups your bottom, supporting you on the kitchen counter and pushing his body between your legs. Your saliva on his fingers leaves a cold, wet line on you as he uses his other hand to pull your dress down your shoulders.

In a way, it almost feels _wrong_ to be in such close quarters to a man you only met yesterday. He’s just a stranger, but he knows your body intimately. His kisses soothe your conscience and tell you this is _right_ , so right. This is exactly the right place and time, and somehow, he knew.

The sound of your lewd moans and his deep breaths fill the silence of your home.

“So beautiful, _cara mia_.”

If the word ‘lost’ could be embodied, it would definitely be you at this very moment. His deep voice sends vibrations through your whole body, an overwhelming addition to his own presence. His touches consume you, and you gladly invite him to envelop your smaller frame. You don’t want this to stop, you want _more_. Oh, for him to take you and make a mess of you. He was an absolute gentleman, but a primal urge within you wants him to ruin you.

He tugs your hair back gently, peppering your throat with even more kisses. You squeak as he swiftly pulls your undergarments aside, plunging two wet fingers into you and rubbing his thumb ever so slowly on your clit.

A ripple of fire surges through your whole body. He makes a quick work of you, a tantalizing dance of his fingers thrusting into your walls with a ‘come hither’ motion. It’s a slow and relentless build up that possesses your control over your own body as you arch your back and smush your bare chest against his. He doesn’t quicken his pace but instead thrusts harder, _deeper_ , but it’s not close enough. “More,” you cry.

The man only hums in response, retracting his hand only to replace it with something longer and harder.

“For you, _bella_? Anything.”

Everything stops, and the world you’re in dissipates in the blink of an eye. You’re less than amused as the dream is ripped away by your own waking consciousness. Disappointment floods your chest when your eyes fully open.

_Merda_. You wish you could relish in the savoury dream, but there’s no time. You’ve a full day of patients ahead -- the plague wasn’t going to stop itself. With a quick stretch, you got out of bed and prepared yourself for work. You quickly clean yourself up and change into your outfit: a black cloak with a protective fabric overcoat, black boots, gloves, and finally, you wear your beaked mask that reveals only your eyes. On your way out, you grab your belongings and catch a glance at yourself in the mirror. A part of you wishes your family got to see how far you’ve come on your own. A sigh passes your lips. You could only wish.

The day goes by surprisingly quick, the blazing sun not being a bother as it usually is given your dark and heavy attire. Perhaps you’re used to it now. Given the presence of the plague, you’re not surprised at the increase in clientele for the day. An exponential growth of people asked of your services, a blur of rich and working class people seeking ointments and medicine for loved ones. Despite the events at the market yesterday, you’re lucky to have a variety of other containers and vials of medicine, enough to sell out hours into the afternoon. Once you sell out, much to others’ dismay, you’re left with people seeking your help for non-plague related concerns. You handle the occasional weird medical questions, trying not to shake your head at some people’s logic -- _how is blood letting a viable option for combating a small cold?_ \-- and remind people of the preventative measures they should take to avoid catching or spreading the plague themselves. That, and you kindly reminded them that looking for common sense would take them a long way.

By the end of the day, your throat is a little hoarse from lowering it enough to not sound like a woman, but not enough to sound genuinely like a man. Nobody questions it, you offer your services and they offer up their coin. You don’t mind, but you still proceed with your business as usual: with caution. No one else but your mentor can know. You only got this far because of your unusual privilege to learn it from your mother, a noblewoman whose knowledge derived from your own father. Before your birth and his disappearance, he taught your mother in secret. In turn, she passed the skills and knowledge onto you until she passed away. You were no longer upset at the loss of either of them. You were grateful enough for them to have given you the skills you needed to stand on your own and move on without them.

The sudden lull outside in the streets reminds you that it’s time to pack up your things. The mosaic of orange and blues insists you finally go home and rest up for another similar day. As you know it, the day is finally over.

“ _Dottore!_ ”

Except it’s not.

A rush of embarrassment hits you like a hammer when you see that your final patient is none other than the hooded man of your dreams. He certainly showed up whenever you thought about him, awake or asleep. You’re glad he can’t see your face.

“Please,” he says in a gruff voice, “...help me.” He stands at a distance, a hand on his lower abdomen as he inches forward.

As much as you wish to help him, you don't want to risk his health any further. “ _Messere_ , I’ve been surrounded by people in close contact with those who have the plague, I cannot--”

Clearly, he does not heed your instructions and walks forth anyway. Looking around at the spare streets and a lack of other doctors, you realize he must have no other choice. With a huff, you remove your overcoat and gloves, gesturing to a seat by your table stand. “ _Vieni qui_ , sit down.”

“It’s just a scratch, _dottore_.” He sits down and winces at the movement. You don’t miss the way he tries to cover up the pain by keeping a stoic expression.

“I’ll be the judge of that.” Your eyes scan the hand pressed to his left side by his ribs. “Let’s have a look.”

The thin, white fabric of his sleeve clings to his side when he slowly raises his arm, revealing a gash just below his ribs. The man huffs, “I just need stitches --”

Your raised hand stops him. The wound isn’t deep enough to reach any major organs, but it’s still an open wound susceptible to infections. After your brief inspection, you grab hold of all the items you’ll need to clean and stitch him up. “You’re right, you need stitches.”

Preening in his small victory of being told he’s right, he smirks at your admittance. It doesn’t last when you tell him suddenly that he needs to remove his shirt. He hesitates, looking around the streets.

“It’ll be quick and easy for you, _messere_.” You look at him expectantly behind your mask. It’d also be a much needed sight for you, but you’re professional. You half-ass an attempt to shove the dirty thoughts down the drain called your mind. Quick and easy, then we’ll be on our way, you assure yourself. _Just don’t think sinful thoughts, don’t think sinful thoughts --_

“I like quick and easy,” he chuckles.

_Don’t think sinful thoughts, don’t think sinful thoughts, don’t think sinful thoughts, don’t think sinful thoughts, don’t think sinful thoughts, don’t think sinful thoughts, don’t think sinful thoughts_

You nearly choke on your own saliva, clearing your throat haphazardly as he struggles to correct himself. His smooth composure is still somehow contained while yours is a wreck. “Ah, sorry _dottore_ , that came out wrong.”

You nod, wordlessly forgiving him and urging him to continue so you could die in shame in your own home. The two of you take it upon yourselves to continue as is. Standing straight, you wait for him to remove his white tunic. He unwraps the red sash on his waist which soaked up most of his blood. The silver buckle attached to his sash does not go unnoticed to you. Your memory fails you when you attempt to remember where you’ve seen it before. You choose to ignore it by the time he finishes and pulls the fabric to the side.

_Dios_ , was it legal for a man to be sculpted this well? You had come across fine men in your own lifetime, but this - this man’s body is a testament to the gods. His tan skin was sparsely coated in scars here and there, his abs in all its glory tracing down to the v-line of his hips and a dark trail of hair going down to his -- 

You immediately get to work, snapping yourself out of your own filthy reverie.

He seems used to the pain from cleansing a wound, barely flinching at your touch.

While you prefer not to speak so much due to secrecy, curiosity gets the best of you when you ask him how he was wounded. “Who did this to you?”

The hooded man exhales a laugh. “A woman.”

You tilt your head in a way that asks, _“A woman did this to you?”_ You swipe the blood that spread around the wound, soon replacing the cloth with another one. Silence nearly takes over as he contemplates telling a stranger about his encounter. Eventually, he starts with a relieved sigh. “Guards were chasing me on the rooftops…”

You figured.

“...and a beautiful woman was on my mind.”

“Oh?” You did _not_ have that figured. “And who is this beautiful woman, _signore_?”

“I do not know, _dottore_.” His smooth voice takes a dip, filled with forlorn and frustration at the thought of not knowing this woman. “Being the _idiota_ I am, I did not ask for the _belleza’s_ name.”

Your giggle is strained as you try to keep your composure pretending to be a male doctor. As much as you wish to reveal yourself, not even he can know about your secret. _Dios_. If he’s never going to reveal his face, then it was all the more reason for you to not mess up. You settle for a soft exhale of a laugh while you switch your items and grab the needle and thread.

“I know, I know,” he raises a hand in defense, “I could’ve asked but…” He holds his breath in anticipation as you push the needle through. “She had places to be.”

“You never know, _signore_.” Skilled hands quickly weave the needle through the skin as you speak to distract him from the procedure. “This is a small neighbourhood.”

Unbeknownst to you, his eyes trailed your entire frame: from your hand movements by his abdomen, down to your feet, and then up to your beaked mask. His eyes linger at the sight of your mask, as if to remove it telepathically. Curiosity rises in him as he activates his visual gift. Although he had known about it at a young age and is naturally skilled at using his gift whenever he pleases, he concludes at this moment that it is not infallible. He knows that people outlined in red are his enemies; blue, his allies; and gold, people or objects of interest. For some reason, you are outlined in combinations of blue and gold.

"That's true, _dottore_ ," he responds to you with a small, hopeful smile. “Very true.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> does it count as eventual smut if it only counts the real sexy times for later and not the dream? ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ 
> 
> anyway, feedback is always appreciated <3


	3. Tuesday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rumors on your street tell you that someone's looking for you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter is a bit shorter than the first two! I'm thinkin of each chapter being various lengths. So, some will be long, some will be shorter. 
> 
> *resisting the urge to say that's what she said * 
> 
> anyway, feedback is always appreciated! enjoy

A soft _thunk_ is heard through your room when you uncork the bottle of wine. Normally, you wouldn’t resort to drinking to calm your nerves, but the anticipation makes you antsy. It troubles you when you don’t see the man again. It shouldn’t, given it’s only been two days since you met. Granted, you didn’t give him much to go on. Surely, he wouldn’t actually try to find you at this point -- how could he? What if he only liked the flirting? What if he _gave up_?

_Merda._

You sigh, ignoring the way your wine sloshes around in your cup while you slump into the chaise by your second floor window. Its velvety texture provides some comfort while you mull over the _what ifs_ in your mind. You quashed those thoughts, there’s more to worry about then a man you met on the streets. For one, today’s neighbourhood gossip mentioned someone was scouring the streets and asking about _you_. The extra locks on your doors provided little ease for you. A very tiny thought occurred to you: what if it’s the hooded man? You nearly indulge the possibility but shake your head. Knowing your luck, that won’t be the case. You’re lucky enough to have something to fall back on.

Signora Rivera da Firenze, your mother, knew the world was unfair to women. She also knew she wouldn’t be able to marry you off in time before her passing. You would be taken advantage of, unable to live independently, or both. Growing up, she created safeguards for you, telling you that your brother, a travelling doctor, would always be there for you to depend on. Only recently, you put the pieces together -- you never had a brother, but the inheritance supposedly for you and your “brother” to share is solely for you. Her money, properties, and belongings, all of it for you. Indeed, your brother could simply help you out if someone knew too much.

A knock stops your train of thought. The fallback plan may have to be enacted tonight. You gulp down more of your wine before getting up and placing it on your desk. Silently, you make your way downstairs towards the door.

The knocking continues.

“Who is it?” You call from the bottom of your stairs. “We’re not expecting anyone at this hour.”

“You know who it is.”

Except you don’t know who it is, but he sounds eerily similar to a man in your neighbourhood. _Merda_. Judging by the lower voice, albeit very muffled behind the door, it must be the man who tries to mooch off your brother for his own failing business, but even then, he makes appointments with you since you are your brother’s proxy. This doesn't make sense. You shake away any hope that it's the hooded man. _There's no way!_ “No, _messere_ , that’s why I’m asking.”

“ _Bella_ , you have nothing to worry about --”

“And _**you** _have no appointment,” you assert while grabbing the iron poker by the front door hinges. “ _Signore_ …”

“Ezio,” the man on the other side answers somewhat amusedly. Does this _cazzo_ find something funny? You certainly don’t.

“I have no idea who you are, _Ser_ Ezio.”

This time, the man behind the door chuckles before telling you it’d be easier if you just open the door and see for yourself. With no window nearby, you’ve no choice but to listen. You brace yourself, holding the poker in one hand while you open the door slowly. Just who did this man think he is, telling you to open your door for him?

“I don’t know any Ezio, so I don’t understand--”

Your words are suddenly cut off at the sight. The one harassing you outside is none other than the hooded man himself.

“May I come in?”


	4. Wine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You and Ezio share a glass of wine or two, or more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no smut yet, but the next few chapters will be loosely based on the song 7 days by craig david
> 
> as always, feedback is appreciated! enjoy

So the hooded man has a name. Ezio. You think you’ve had too much wine to drink. This has to be a dream. The removal of his hood confirms your thoughts. He’s not some man named Ezio, but Ezio of House Auditore himself. It’s dark by the front entrance, but you’ve definitely seen him before around the streets. Charming, mysterious, notorious too? What’s there _not_ to like? Given his history in this city, you wonder how you’ve managed to gain his interest. His presence captivates you and you willingly let yourself be captivated, almost too much.

Before you can respond, he takes a step forward. Like a dance he leads with one foot as you step back with yours, the two of you entering your home. Your door shuts when you finally realize how much closer he is. His eyes burn into yours, completely disregarding the lack of distance between your chests as he reaches down to your --

“You should probably let this go.”

 _What_?

“These can be dangerous.” You feel a weight being pried away from your fingers. The hooded man turns around, your poker in hand, and sets it by your fireplace.

Oh.

“ _Mi dispiace_ , Ezio.” You feel the heat rising unbearably in your cheeks as you apologize to the man. First, you think he’s some failed tradesman trying to harass you. Second, you think he’s trying to make a move on you when he’s just taking the iron poker out of your hands.

Whether he notices the slight crack in your voice, he doesn’t show it. “ _Non ti preoccupare, tesoro_.”

You smile at the nickname, noticing the growing tension of him just showing up. In the middle of the night. “Well, I don’t suppose you’re here to just stand around. Care for a drink?”

“I would be much obliged, er...”

At the sound of your name, his lips curl into a smile that says _Finally!_

Halfway up the steps, you can’t help but feel a pair of eyes staring at your backside. Obviously, he would. There’s nothing else to look at when someone’s in front of you going up the stairs. He’s only just met you, of course he wouldn’t! You can’t help but think… Although your home is rather small, going upstairs is a strenuous task when you can just _feel_ someone look at you or, more specifically, your ass. You whip your head around and face him. He looks up at you, wondering why you’ve stopped. You turn back around and proceed, missing the smirk on his face.

You’ve seen Ezio around before, running errands for his father, Giovanni. His face is distinct, an unforgettable face. Yet, never before had you seen him up close like this before. You nearly overfill his cup when you see his face under the lighting of your room. _Dios mio_. He’s certainly as handsome as you imagined him to be. Even better, he’s _real_. Clearly, God took time on Ezio’s creation. You stop yourself, reminding yourself that he’s still a guest in your home. More importantly, you still have questions of your own.

“So, Ezio…” you hand his cup over to him, “...how did you find me?”

He begins to explain himself after you raise your glasses and settle down. He chooses your chaise lounge, you sit across from him on top of your desk.

“Well, it’s not very hard when people talk about your _dottore_ of a brother, he’s quite famous around this neighbourhood.”

“I suppose that’s true.” You sigh into your cup as you take a sip. He notices.

“Do you not agree?”

 _I disagree because I deserve all the credit_ , is what you would’ve said. Instead, you settle for humility. “I disagree.”

“Oh?” He shoots you an amused look.

 _Merda_. That was not humble or what you meant to say at _all_. “What I mean is, in a way I help him a lot, but he tends to get all the credit.”

You note the inquisitive and knowing look in his eye.

“Then what do _you_ do?”

You take another sip, slowly feeling the effects of your previous glass of wine. “I’m his bookkeeper, he makes all the money, I simply manage it.” You think carefully not to mention his own family since the incident. Not wanting to pry, you ask him what he does for a living.

Ezio tells you he’s a solicitor, in charge of discretely delivering justice to those who commit crimes. You find a strange irony in his career that you can’t really determine. Part of you doesn’t believe him, but you don’t comment on it. His career is none of your business.

You spend the next few hours being more honest with each other for every glass of wine you share. Your composures slip, your postures become more relaxed and your movements become sloppy. You note the fondness in his voice when he speaks of them. After sharing your experience with medicine and finances growing up, you learn about Ezio’s apprenticeship with bankers, and the errands he’d run for his family members. His mother’s memoirs are right in describing him. Confident, you noted just by the way he carries himeself. He most definitely is a confident man, his reputation among women precedes him even to this day. His stubbornness and loud-mouthed self, you have yet to see, but the passion his mother describes could rival that of his confidence. The thought of his passion translating into his _outlets_ creeps up in the back of your mind. Maybe he's found other forms of self-expression, you suppose as a more innocent alternative.

After a few more glasses of wine, you tell Ezio he may have to leave soon as your brother will arrive. The two of you finish the remains of your fourth bottle of wine as your conversation dwindles into the night.

“Where would your _fratello_ be at this hour?” Ezio stands up and closes the distance between you. He places his arms by your sides as you sit on your desk, waiting for your answer. He notes the lack of subtlety in your eyes looking him up and down.

“Probably with…” The numerous glasses of wine and his body between your legs being an eerie reminder of your dream does nothing to help you come up with an answer.

“With who?” He presses himself into you, pushing his chest against yours.

His lips are dangerously close to yours as you try to answer while ignoring the hammering inside your chest. When did he get so close to you? Your throat clenches up in the search for your words. With a quivering lip you answer meekly. “...With a lover.”

“Is that so?” He places a finger under your chin, making you look up at him. In this lighting, his brown eyes have traces of gold reflected from the candles. The wine had taken its hold of you and you’re not really sure if the dreamy expression of the woman in his eyes is yours. Never before had you felt like prey, yet he was the hunter and he had you in his grasp, never mind his sight. Were you always so willing to be captured by a man? Except, he’s not just any man to you, he’s _Ezio Auditore_. The reflections in his eyes get larger, you notice as his lips approach.

Until they don’t. As much as you want this, you're not sure if you want this so soon.

You stop him, placing your fingers on his lips. “Something tells me you’re not used to taking things slow.”

His warm hands find yours and pull it down. The sliver of space between you draws you in like magnets to metal. An unfathomable tether reels the two of you into each other, demanding the connection to be made, _demanding_ the two of you to stop playing these games. It's no secret to either of you how much your desire for each other nearly outweighs the thought of taking things slow. 

Yet, you both resist.

“With you, I can try.”


	5. Wednesday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Slow isn’t in either of your vocabularies, but you try.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> still no smut yet, but things get a lil steamy ;) 
> 
> feedback is always appreciated. enjoy! <3

“You’re soaked.”

Ezio’s visit surprises and confuses you for two reasons. One, he’s back much sooner than you expected. The day right after his first visit? You figured he’d wait or not even have the time to spare. Second, he’s visiting you on an especially rainy evening. Such weather is normally a deterrent for all outdoor workers and suitors alike.

“I had nowhere else to go.” A cocky tone overlaps the shiver he tries to hide, shamelessly standing by the poor excuse to see you. The rain seems to humble him despite using his puppy eyes and bashful smile to goad you into ushering him inside. “May I come in?”

You don’t hesitate for a second longer, pulling him in by the arm to the fireplace in your living room. “Stay here and warm yourself up, I’ll get you some blankets.”

Running upstairs, you’re frazzled by his sudden visit and almost forget where you’ve placed all your blankets. The task requires more of your time and attention than expected that you don’t hear the commotion of objects dropping onto the floor of your living room. Eventually, your rush leads you to the spare guest room which (you neglected to check first) had the blankets you needed.

Towards the last bottom steps, you trip over the blankets haphazardly bunched up in your arms. A warm, sturdy surface breaks your fall, resulting in strong arms around you, and a face full of blankets and something wet. Reluctantly, you pull away and immediately regret it when your blood rushes to your head at the sight. Not only is it Ezio still holding you close against his chest, it’s Ezio without his usual garb. Despite the blankets between you, the lack of sleeves and his chest tell you what you need to know. Ezio is _shirtless_. Ezio is shirtless and _holding_ you.

“Are you alright?”

“Yes, yes,” your assurance comes out as aggressive at the fact that a half naked man is in your home, and the fact that you wanted to stay like this, but part of you wants to explore the rest of his body in a less appropriate way. Dios. Does he even need the fireplace? The warmth radiating from his body scrambles your brain and rivals the heat of the fireplace itself.

You step off the blankets and walk towards your fireplace. When you sit in front of it, Ezio follows suit, sitting cross legged beside you on the floor. Your arms extend to hold the blanket out for him and he immediately takes advantage of the closeness that allows you to drape it across his shoulders. Ezio snuggles up to you for the briefest second while your arms are around him. You welcome it, only to keep him warm after being outside on such a cold, rainy day.

“So… you don’t have a place to stay?” You ask. Ezio doesn’t miss the playful tone in your voice when you begin.

“I have my own residence,” his shoulders shake as he chuckles. “I just wanted to see you.”

Your heart flutters at the statement. The two of you stare into the flames, acknowledging each other’s words. In a way, you’re grateful he came by tonight. You had actually started to miss him and wanted to see him again, but didn’t want to seem too eager for him. Sighing in relief, you place your head on his shoulder. “I appreciate that, _grazie_.”

He leans his head onto yours. “ _Prego_ , and thank you for letting me stay.”

“Of course.”

For a few minutes, neither of you speak, finding comfort in the warmth of the fireplace and each other’s bodies as you stare at the fire. It had been so long since you’d been so comfortable around anyone aside from your mentor. Over time, you began to think it’d be impossible to ever feel this type of comfort in your life, ever. Recently, acceptance of this impossibility came more easily as you spent your nights alone. You like his company, and in a way, you need it. Not necessarily from him, but for the comfort to come solely from him would be a bonus.

Ezio soon breaks the silence, his breath hitching like he just remembered something. “I was meaning to give you this.”

You sit up when you feel him turn to get up. “Oh, you didn’t need to get --”

“No, I insist,” he replies with his back turned to you while searching for the mystery gift, waving one hand as if to shoo away your modesty. He’s rather adorable like this, rummaging through his belongings while the layered blankets make him look like a tiny, swaddled child. When he turns around, you feel your heart skip.

In his hand, he holds a single red rose.

“Ezio…” Your voice is soft and you almost tear up at the gesture. Truly, it’s been too long since anyone has made you feel like this. Sure, you provided blankets and a place for him to stay on a rainy day, but that combined with a _thank you_ still didn’t feel adequate enough in return. You accept the rose, sniffing it then staring into his eyes. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Nothing,” Ezio smiles as he watches you place the rose on a nearby stand. “You don’t need to say anything, _cara mia_ \--”

“You’re right.”

Before he realizes it, you’re stomping towards him with a new resolve and quickly close the space between you. You cradle his face with your hands and pull him gently to look down at you. He sees the cogs turning in your mind as you stare straight into his eyes, as if you’re searching for a reason to stop what you’re doing; a reason to hold back.

Except you don’t hold back, not when Ezio leans into your touch and looks at you like you’re the only one he’ll ever want this intimacy with; like you’re a rarity among the women he’s sought physical company with. You can’t hold back when you feel the same way about him. So you don’t hold back. Throwing all caution to the wind -- taking things slow be damned -- you step forth and close the space between you, pressing your lips against his.

It’s a welcoming feeling, to be in his embrace. You’re not just deprived and in need touch, you want - no, need it from _him_. Dirty dreams and imaginations were all you had to go by, yet all pale in comparison to the reality. Your thoughts have nothing on this spell of a man whose hands hold you securely by the waist. The warm feeling of your breaths constantly bring you back for more, the kiss turning hungrier by the second. His lips, their softness silencing your thoughts, wash over your senses and make you weak in the knees.

You nearly whimper as Ezio pulls away.

“You barely know me,” he playfully chides before claiming your mouth again, hungry and intense, until your knees finally give in. By the time you’re aware of your newfound position on the floor, you realize your fingers had already just barely slipped into the waistline of his pants, his skin smooth and radiating heat.

“That’s okay… ” You take a breath between kisses, “... we told ourselves we’d try to take things slow, no?”

He kisses you again, humming in response. “The key word is _try_.”

At this point, you’re at a loss for things to say when he kisses you between words.

“Yes, we’re… ” Kiss.

“Trying...” Kiss.

“...very hard.”

“Yes, _cara mia_...” Ezio soothes. At this, he perks up and kisses you fervently now, hands roaming your body. Your lips remain sealed in his exploration, your mind going haywire at his touch. He gives your breast a small squeeze while gripping your hair in the other hand, propping himself onto his knees to press his bulge right against you, your clothes the only barrier between.

“Yes, Ezio…”

“We’re trying…” You nearly melt when he grinds into you as he speaks, “ _Very. Hard_.”

The hand on your breast goes down, a fire left in its wake as he slowly pulls your dress up. In a dazed state, you manage to grab his hand and stop him. Ezio stops to look up at you, coming out of his fugue state as well. As much as you want this, you still want to try to take things slow. A part of you yells at you for denying this opportunity, but another part of you tells you that waiting with and for him will be worth it. Throwing caution to the wind again, you go with the latter.

Luckily for you, Ezio understands.

Even luckier for you, Ezio feels the same way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the sudden cliffhanger BUT things will change soon : >


	6. Thursday Readings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You want to read, Ezio wants you to beg.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nsfw but no sex, it'll happen v soon ;) 
> 
> anyway this chapter is inspired by hysterical literature :>
> 
> feedback is always appreciated, enjoy!

Experimental procedures are nearly unheard of in your field of work. Given the influence of the Church, it’s downright demonized to propose such a method. Science was not welcomed without any dangerous consequences. Having been taught unconventional methods by an unconventional woman, you know better than to doubt its usefulness. You also know better than to put too much faith in a theory with little evidence aside from coincidence. Coincidence or not, Ezio was a man whose presence lingered. The very notion of the man invaded your thoughts, your home, and your body -- yet, you gladly let him. It’s almost like your thoughts of Ezio draw him into you like a void, compelling him to grace your presence at that very moment and show that he’s willing to do your bidding.

Today, you realize, is no different when the heavy rain from last night persists. The rain beats steadily on your windows, creating a pleasant background noise for you while you take the day to relax. With no business for you, you’re cooped up with nothing to do but read in bed, having finished all your bookkeeping for the day.

Ezio visits you earlier than usual, laying in bed beside you while you read. Having put his book away after quickly growing bored with the selection, he opts for being the big spoon. His warm, naked chest presses against your side, his entire body providing extra heat while you share the covers.

“This is nice,” Ezio muses while playing with your hair.

Without looking away from your book, you give him a knowing smile. This _is_ nice. Finding this level of comfort in silence was rare for you since you’re more used to physical intimacy. As much as you usually crave touch, especially from him, you relish in the small things too. Simple is nice, simple is _normal_. In a way, it was like an escape from the lives you two lead. Neither of you share details, but you understand. The truth was there for both of you, but didn’t have to be said. At least, not right now.

You continue to peruse _The Divine Comedy_ , basking in the comfort of Ezio’s arms. It’s nice and quiet, save for the rain. _Too_ quiet. Ezio isn’t one to interrupt, but you expected him to do so by now to talk you out of the book and talk his way into your pants. Part of you wants him to. Surprisingly, he doesn’t do anything of the sort. You think nothing of the kisses he absently plants all over your cheek and shoulder until a tongue traces your ear.

“What are you doing?”

“Nothing,” Ezio replies innocently, all while proceeding to lick and suck on your earlobe.

“I’m ...almost done, Ezio.” You almost shudder when he retraces the outer lobe, and continues downward. He shifts, turning his head to mouth at your neck.

“Which part are you on?”

“ _Paradiso_.” Attempting to gain your composure back, nearly straining yourself just trying to answer his simple question.

He stops kissing your neck temporarily and you hear him say what you think is _“lucky me”_ , but he gives you no answer when you ask. You continue your reading, confused by the contradiction of his actions and desire. Ezio clearly wants your attention, but he makes no move to actually make you stop reading. _Just what is he up to?_

“What are you doing?” You ask again. His eyes don’t leave yours as he slowly pulls the blankets off your legs and lowers himself between your thighs, pulling them over his shoulders. Your bare legs tremble at the sudden coldness. Ezio places his hands atop your thighs to hold you steady and warm them.

“Letting you concentrate.” He maintains his stare from between your legs, watching you amusedly when your expression quickly changes at his warm breath being so close to your core. _“Vai avanti.”_

You reluctantly agree, voice almost shaking when you begin to read aloud.

“I was not ware of our ascending to it; but of our being in it gave full faith, my lady whom I saw more beauteous grow --”

Your voice wavers at the touch of his soft lips on his thighs. Slowly, he kisses and mouths at your inner thighs, sensually pulling your attention away from the book as he nears the junction of your thighs and tugs your chemise up to your abdomen, exposing your sex. He shoots you a look that urges you to continue, so you do.

“And as within a flame a spark is seen, and as within a voice a voice discerned, when one is steadfast, and one comes and goes... ”

At the last few words on coming and going, Ezio licks a stripe up your entrance, lithely circling his tongue around your clit. You stifle a moan in the back of your throat, gripping onto the fragile book with one hand and the bedsheets in the other. He moans at the taste of you, sending vibrations right through your body when he tells you to keep reading.

“Please,” he licks again, “... continue.”

On his request, you press on despite the distraction, albeit hastily.

“Within that light beheld I other lamps, move in a circle, speeding more and less. Methinks in m-measure of their inward…”

You take a sharp breath when Ezio dips his tongue into your entrance. His own moans amplify the pressure of his tongue as he pushes deeper into you. Just when you feel he is about to stop, you continue. This can’t stop now, not when you need more. Voice breathy and barely above a whisper, you keep reading.

“...vision. From a cold cloud descended never winds, or visible or not, so r-rapidly, they would not laggard and impeded seem to any one who had those lights d-divine -- oh!” The grip on your book tightens and does nothing to block Ezio from your view as he sucks on your clit. When you buck your hips, he rests one of his hands on top to keep you steady.

“Do continue, _cara mia_ ,” he coos, “...You’re almost there.”

“Seen come towards us, leaving the gyration -- oh _God!_ ”

Ezio’s words of encouragement do nothing to prepare you for his fingers thrusting into you with his free hand as he switches between licking and sucking your clit. After one finger, he puts another, and then a third. Your book is long discarded on the floor of your bedroom, and you grip onto his hair, pushing his face into your folds; his nose brushing against your already sensitive clit. His words are drowned out by your loud moans. Ezio starts to thrust faster and deeper, applying more pressure with his tongue as he circles your clit rapidly.

“Look at me, _cara mia_.”

You almost don’t hear Ezio over yourself. Your sharp cries drown out even the heavy rain as he makes a mess of you in your bed. A tingly spark begins in your toes, travelling up your legs and over your whole body as he tongues the bundle of nerves. Like a wave, the feeling builds and crashes through you. The man before you is suddenly both easy and hard to ignore when the build of your orgasm washes over you.

“ _Voglio che mi guardi, amore_.”

_I want you to look at me, love,_ he says again and again until you finally do. By a thread, you focus and grab onto the one word that sends you over the edge. _Love_. You know this isn’t love, but you continuously and mindlessly beg Ezio in response; goading him with cries of _yes_ , _please_ , and the occasional cuss words. This is far from love, but if it was the only resemblance to a love you’ll probably never have, then by God you’d keep holding onto it. He had you in his clutches now and you hoped he wouldn’t let you go. Amidst your own haze of pleasure, you struggle to focus on him, his touch, and your absolute need to orgasm. His eyes lock you in and ground you, just barely, as you peak. Your cries fill the room as you quickly plateau and let yourself get overwhelmed by the brutal pace he sets pumping into you, sucking your clit just _right_. He follows your movement as you ride out your orgasm and into your waves of bliss.

“ _Sei così bella quando vieni_.” Ezio notes your beauty when you let go, teasing your entrance with his tongue once more before coming up to kiss you and share the flavour of your juices. Propping himself up, he cradles your face with his hand as the two of you kiss.

“So beautiful.”


	7. Friday Fun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The two of you come to the unsurprising realization that taking things "slow" is a fantasy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nsfw, after 82 years the sex is here bc i couldn't wait any longer to write it!
> 
> music insp:  
> \- 505 by arctic monkeys  
> \- she's mine pt.1 by j.cole  
> \- ayayai by daniela andrade 
> 
> as always, feedback is appreciated. enjoy!

“Something tells me you’re not the type of woman to sleep with me and move on,” Ezio says between your fervent kisses.

The man below you is right. You’re _not_ that type of woman. At least, not when it comes to him. When he’s below you, eyes closed in pleasure as you ride his cock, you don’t want to move on after this, after Ezio. You _can’t_. He isn’t just any man you can come across in Italy. Whatever is between you, it’s exactly what you want at exactly the right time -- taking things “slow” be damned.

He comes up for another kiss, desperately searching for something to ground him while you fuck him. You don’t let him. His head bounces on your pillow when you shove him back, eyes filled with curiosity and full-blown lust. Normally, you’d welcome the kiss, but at this moment, you want him to watch as you make a mess of him and ruin him. The smooth composure he’d constantly shown you during all of his nightly visits? None of it fooled you. Every man has their limit, and you want to see _his_.

“Is that what you want from me?”

He shudders at the touch of your lips right by his ear when you ask. For a moment, he doesn’t reply, focusing on the sensation of your tongue when you run it up his neck and around his ear.  
With a quick lift of your hips until the tip of his cock is in, you snap down with a hard rotation of your hips and you clench tightly around him. The brutal pace you’ve set continues, your bed shifts out of place and Ezio’s moans mingle with the bedpost banging against the wall.

“Oh, _cara mia_ … never.”

He grunts as you grind harder at each word, each _breath_ he takes. It’s exactly the answer you want, so you reward him. You gently tug his hair back to bring his face up to yours as you press your lips harshly against his lips. It’s hungry, _feral_.

Ezio’s hands dig into your hips, pulling you down harder every time you bounce on him. The way his hips stutter when he bucks his hips and ruts against you tells you he’s _still_ trying to hold back. This, you won’t allow. You grab his hands and pin them above his head, keeping him in place with your weight as you lean forward, lips no longer on his. Ezio lets out a small sound of protest that’s soon replaced with a long, drawn out moan and his face contorting in ecstasy at every roll of your hips.

“Fuck.”

The curse escapes his lips. You preen at the small success of knowing what you’re doing to him. Below you, his composure crumbles at your relentlessness. Confidence bubbles in your chest at the sight of Ezio. No longer does he make the effort to keep it together. You’ve made a mess of him in such a short time, whether through your talent or sheer luck alone. Somehow, he allows it. His eyes tell you he’s _letting_ you do this and he _wants_ it. Most of all, he’s telling you he waited for the right time to strike.

Missing the look he flashes your way, the wind is knocked out of you when he suddenly escapes your grip and pulls you beneath him. Before you know it, he sticks his fingers in your mouth only to release them with a pop, your saliva trailing between you. Ezio wastes no time in pushing his digits into you and spreading your walls with ease.

“The _things_ you do to me, _cara_ _mia_.”

He pushes harder, emphasizing every word. Another hand rests at the base of your neck, the pressure keeping you away from him when you crane your neck to kiss him. You’ve regretfully established a give and take that would backfire on you due to your desire to ruin him. The dynamic you’ve set up allowed you to give and take whereas he could only take the torture you put him under. Like you, he’s ruthless and unforgiving. Unlike you, he won’t let you gain the upper hand. He’ll make you take him at full force and no mercy. To you, mercy has no meaning to you in this context. You could take it. You want to.

A whine leaves your lips at the removal of his fingers. Ezio doesn’t speak for a while, a low groan comes from him as he slips himself into you. His breath stutters at the sight of you easily placing your legs onto his shoulders. Taking a second to adjust to the new angle, he stares deeply into your eyes and braces himself with his elbows on each side of your head. Yet, he doesn’t allow _you_ to brace yourself when he starts.

“You have no idea what you do to me.”

Before you can answer, he sets a brutal pace you’re not ready for. He pins your legs together, hugging them to his chest as he pounds you. Each and every thrust knocks the wind and whatever witty remark you have out of you. With reckless abandon, he fucks you fast and _hard_. At this angle, his cock fills you up and hits your cervix with every snap of his hips. Your cries nearly drown him out and distract you from the sheer force behind his thrusts that overwhelm you in such a short time.

The lust overwhelms you and you nearly miss the way Ezio places your legs back onto his shoulders and leans forward, stretching you out even more. With a quiet desperation, he yanks your dress just below your breasts. You shudder at the new angle and coldness hitting your breasts. Just barely, he slows down as he mouths at each nipple, licking and biting between thrusts. As quickly as he slowed down, he picks up the pace again, bracing himself and staring straight into your eyes as he fucks you. You’re winded as the two of you bounce on the mattress with every one of his thrusts into you.

“Ezio.”

He loved the way a woman said his name as much as the next guy, but it's different when it comes from you. It's a lightning strike to his heart that ripples through his body, and yet, it's so much more complex in a way that even he can't explain. Your cries beneath him only serve to encourage him as he ruins you in return. He slows down again when he leans back to look at you while he maintains the pace. With an amused smirk, he notes that you’re all but hot and bothered, and downright a mess. The flush in your cheeks is evident and so is the sweat shining on your forehead and trailing between your breasts. The usual neat updo is replaced by a nest of your long hair. Your kind lips are now plump and swollen from your rough kisses. His breath hitches when he looks into your eyes. _Dios_ , there was something in your eyes that told him, just as he said earlier, that you’d never leave him after this. Ezio was never religious, but secretly he hoped to God - or any god - that what he said was true. He hoped it was as true as your current desire and hunger for him.

Looking down on your form with his eagle vision, wrapped in swirls of gold and blue, he knows he doesn’t need to rely on his gift to conclude one thing.

You’re insatiable.

Quickly, his hopes translate into his thrusts as he ruthlessly grinds into you, pushing you further down into the bed with his weight. Your mind goes blank and your eyes roll back as he buries his cock in you. The way he fucks you now is no longer unforgiving, but desperate, _needy_.

Your moans meld with the sound of his skin slapping against yours, and the bedpost banging louder against the walls of your room.

You bring your arms down to cradle his face as his pace becomes more sporadic and harsh.

“Come for me.”

Whatever composure Ezio had left was now bursting at the seams, and whatever part of him that still held back in any degree was lost. All your efforts in chipping it away worked, and part of him loved it. Your delicious moans spur him on as he fucks you recklessly into the bed

“ _Vieni per me, amore_.”

At the sound of your gentle encouragement, that’s all it takes. He musters all of his energy left to grab your ass and pounds as hard as he can, his member hitting your walls impossibly harder. His cock twitches within your clenching walls and, with a groan, he comes deep inside of you. Feel him throbbing with every load released, you pull him towards you and kiss him. This time, it’s not out of hunger, but to ground him as he comes down from his orgasm. You pushed him beyond his limit, broke him from it, and through it all, you’d be the one to catch him.

Ezio waits a moment to fully release inside you before plopping himself beside you. Lazily, the two of you help each other out of your crumpled clothes. Exerting the little energy you both have left, you throw all of your clothes on the floor. He reaches an arm out and you don’t hesitate to wiggle your way to his body, huddling against him beneath the covers. With a small kiss, the two of you eventually fall asleep to the sound of the heavy rain beating against your windows.


	8. Saturday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You make a mistake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaaaand back to some plot, another short one. 
> 
> music insp:  
> \- i want war (but i need peace) by kali uchis
> 
> enjoy!

The rain beats mercilessly against your windows. Once again, the rain washes through the streets of Firenze, but today it’s relentless. The winds blow persistently, paying no heed to the strength of every house and structure in sight.

Being in the safety of Ezio’s arms, neither of you mind. His arm circles you, and the warmth between you reminds you that a grounded life is possible to you, even in the smallest ways -- even if it’s just an imitation with a small resemblance to the potential.

As quickly as the two of you have achieved this false sense of normality, it’s ripped away by the smallest of mistakes.

You get on top of him, placing a hand on his chest and just looking at him. He reciprocates the warmth in your eyes and gently squeezes your hand. With your other hand, you trace over the scars that litter his torso, trailing downward until you reach the injury you treated just days ago. At first, you think nothing of the error you make when you note aloud that his injury has improved. You see in his eyes a cloud of realization forming behind them.

There is no more excuse to cover for you, not when the pieces have been put together. To Ezio, it all made sense now: how there was no way for you to know about the injury, especially when your “brother” was always conveniently away during your nightly visits, and finally, the rare and matching glow of gold and blue. Unknowingly, even before you met, he’d seen the same pattern before but only in passing. Recently, he only saw it consistently with you and the doctor. Conveniently, the two of you were actually the same person.

“It’s you.”

Ezio smiles in revelation, but your face darkens. You consider pleading with him to not alert authorities, but a part of you knows he’s not the type of person who’d ever rat on you. Death seemed more welcoming than the thought of pleading before a man. Another, more logical part of you knows that you don’t know him at all, and you can’t trust him no matter how he made you feel for the past week. The conflict in you grows along with the silence.

He holds the sides of your face to force you to look at him, assuring you that there are very special organizations that would accept you as their own; organizations he is a part of -- organizations he told you nothing about. Assassins, and their plight against forces of order that impeded human rights and freedoms. Symbols from your childhood flashed before your eyes when he explained their eternal struggle. You avoid his eyes, gently nudging his hands away from your face.

Certainly, you knew nothing about him. He was no solicitor or enforcer of the laws as he said, he's an _assassin._ Without a doubt, you knew you couldn’t trust him now, not when the stakes are so high -- not when your very own life is at risk. 

Despite his assurance, the thought of persecution is still too much, too high a risk for you to believe him. He notes your silence and takes his leave, asking you to consider it. You make no move to protest his departure into the storm outside. Momentarily, you do consider his words, but you don’t follow through with it. The risk is too great, and you want nothing to do with a man you can't trust or even begin to be honest with. Settling on the notion of you _both_ deserving better, you make your decision. 

Eventually, you pack up your belongings and board a carriage, leaving Firenze and Ezio behind.


	9. Something New, Something Old

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Years later, you lead a different life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> third chapter update for the day, but another smol one :>  
> no ezio, only plot 
> 
> music insp:  
> \- tour of venice by jesper kyd 
> 
> enjoyy ~

In the four years away from Firenze, you never would’ve thought life would take you where you are now.

 _Venezia_.

Never again would you have to roam the streets in search of clientele, or be wary of the persona you presented to the public.

Your reputation precedes you a bit more than you’d like, given your new and unlikely privilege of practicing freely as a woman. They called you _La Guaritore_ , the healer. Although it still takes some getting used to, the reputation works in your favour. Under the employment of an old family friend, you’re protected and your clientele is richer than everyone else you’ve ever treated combined. Like any other doctor worth paying, your skill proved that your services were worth every florin, and no price was too high for your patients. Illegal as it was, the power of your employer superseded the laws itself, and nobody dared to question it. He forbade it. Try as they might, your clientele was so powerful that your reputation was only spread among the elite.

Marco Barbarigo, a man of wealth, power, and authority as the chief magistrate of Venice -- was now the _Doge_ of Venezia. Having been a close friend of your mother, he didn’t waste a second in hiring you for your services upon your arrival. Other than your mother, he was one of the few figures who constantly showed up in your life, guiding you in her absence, and discussing your progress to your mother whenever she returned.

Nothing this good is without its catch, but you know better than to question or oppose it. The patients you treat don’t hide their political agenda or their willingness to accomplish their goals at all costs. You were more wary of the agenda and goals these powerful men did hide. The ignorance you had to adopt in this city benefitted you in more ways than you could’ve ever asked for, so you simply do as you’re told. Despite not being able to treat anyone else without permission or authorization from, you find it easier to comply, and so you do.

At the very least, you _try_ to, but your efforts fail when a charismatic thief drops by your home unannounced and in need of your help. You get to work immediately, shrugging off sleep while he offhandedly praises your reputation. Despite the name you earned, nobody ever mentioned you were a woman, he states. You don’t blame him for his reaction, since you barely practiced in public. You only ever freely operated in the confines of a wealthy patient’s home. Looking at his plain attire, you realize there’s no possible way for him to have known about you at all.

When you finish, you send him off with a warning.

“Not a word goes out that I am a woman, _capisce_?”

He crosses his heart, nodding before running off into the distance, scaling the walls in a way you fondly and painfully remember. You know it isn’t him, so you shake your head and return to bed, anxious for your normal routine to return in the morning. That, and the upcoming _Carnevale_ , was something to look forward to. 


	10. Il profumo dei fiori

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Carnevale and you make an exchange with a mysterious man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whew, it's been a while since I updated. been busy with school, writer's block, burn out, and virtual protests. anyway, enjoy! feedback + kudos are always appreciated
> 
> music insp:  
> \- un anno d'amore by mina

They said demons roamed the skies of Venezia. Some said the demons were a sign of God’s wrath. Some said it was a large, vengeful demonic bird. Few logical opinions were expressed: that this was no demon, but possibly a flying contraption with a man inside. Even then, that seemed just as illogical given how impossible it is. Flight was just unthinkable, a fantasy. Man or demon, it was responsible for punishing several unlucky guards, kicking them off buildings and sending them to their doom.

Is it a coincidence that this occurred just the day before Marco Barbarigo replaced the Doge who mysteriously died?

Frankly, you don’t give it any more thought.

The stars in the night sky go unnoticed, overshadowed by the lights and fireworks that surround the city. Despite the corruption in the government and church, and the maltreatment of the poor, Venezians definitely knew how to throw a celebration. For just one night, everyone of all backgrounds came together to celebrate their last day of indulgence before Lent. If you didn’t know any better, you’d call it an excuse for people to sin and fool around more than usual, without any regard for the consequences, and protected by the anonymity provided by the masks. But you did know better, and for those same reasons, you joined in on the fun.

It had been a while since you felt this good, this attractive. For once, you put in more effort than usual and it didn’t bother you at all that your face would be covered. If anything, you felt that the mask set the tone for the look you went for. You donned a golden mask full of intricate, cut out swirls. It covered your face, save for your chin and lips. Having grown over the years, your hair is now swept back, with two ringlets framing the sides of your face. Keeping the rest of your hair together is a thin, beaded net that leaves the curled tips free. A ribbon is tied around your neck, fashioned into a makeshift choker. The dress you wear matches the mask and hair accessories, a dark red sleeved gown with gold accents. Being specially made for you, the dress was made for you on Marco Barbarigo’s request. He spent an obscene amount of florins as a reward for your services, and wanted you to look your best and attract citizens to his special after-party. The dress was rich, and even better, it made you feel rich and expensive to even look at. If royalty was a feeling, this would be it. Part of you wishes the Doge did this sooner and more often.

Even with the help of your mother, you took considerable lengths of time just to pick out your mask and accessories as a child. That never changed. Carnevale was the day you always lost sleep over. The amount of time you spent putting this whole look together was not something you wanted to admit, it took longer than it ever did before. Used to be, you’d base the dress and accessories on the mask, not the other way around, but you put in the work, and it showed. Judging from the men and women stopping mid-conversation just to look at you, either from captivation or jealousy, your appearance is a success. Desire radiated from them like smoke coming from the Sistine Chapel. They wanted you, or wanted to be you and you reveled in the attention.

Aside from the dress, you’re even more grateful that Marco insisted you roam around and enjoy yourself before staying by his side for the after party. A man his age definitely needed a doctor around if he’s planning on indulging in debauchery. Either way you didn’t mind the trade off.

Weaving through a sea of Venezians, the fireworks shoot into the sky, booming so loudly among the sounds of people laughing, yelling, and singing around you. Your heart beats against your chest at the liveliness of the city. The scenery isn’t exactly the same, but something about this bustling celebration hits you with waves of nostalgia. You think you’ve figured out the source of deja vu, until a man approaches you.

“ _Buona sera bella_ , I believe you have something for me.”

It had been years since a man spoke to you in that tone, but you know this isn’t the time. It isn’t him. It isn’t. This man’s voice is too low to be him. Luckily, your mask covers the shock on your face. The masked man waits patiently for your response. Suddenly, the ribbon on your neck feels all too conspicuous. The game you were a part of almost eluded you. It was a simple premise for a game: a number of women held onto blue ribbons and contestants had to charm their way into collecting the most ribbons.

“The ribbon, of course. ” As soon as you start to untie the ribbon on your neck, you change your mind. Tonight was a night for indulgence. The male contestants had to work for their ribbons, so you’d raise the stakes and make them work for it.

“Dance with me.”

The man notes the mischievous glint in your eyes when you look back and forth between him and the circle of dancers behind him. He smiles. “ _Va bene_ , if you’re not satisfied with my performance by the end of it, I will accept the loss.”

He gets closer to you, and with a kiss to the back of your hand, the two of you join the people dancing.

The man wastes no time in taking the lead and proving to you that you will leave more than satisfied with his skills. In a matter of minutes he’s not only leading you, but the rest of the dancers around you, quickening the pace of their steps and the music they’re supposed to follow. By now, more people have joined the spectacle, flooding your vision and nearly disorienting you when everyone switches partners.

Across the sea of people, you see the man with his new partner in arms. The woman relishes in his touch as he moves languidly with her, a sensual dance that isn’t at all shared with her in the moment. All while he twirls around with her and places his palms against hers, he’s only eyeing you, paying no attention to his partner. His movements are just enough to reel her in but not enough to give her what she wants. With her, the man’s movements are seductive but absent, leaving her somewhat unsatisfied as she moves onto her next partner.

A shaky breath leaves you as you try to steady yourself, maintaining eye contact with such a man while constantly switching partners in a fast-paced dance was no easy feat. You feel yourself getting warmer as you anticipate him getting closer to you with every partner switch.

The fireworks set off and you can’t help but join everyone else as they cheer and look up at the sight. Distracted by the lights, you don’t realize the man closing the distance between you. Heat creeps up to your face as you feel the full intensity of his gaze. Something in his eyes and touch makes you lose your breath and shoots straight between your legs. Suddenly, the shame of not having lain with a man for as long as you have fills you to your core, a sad and urgent reminder you struggle to ignore as he maintains eye contact. He notes the look in your eyes and gives in, despite the time limit for the game he’s a part of.

Soon enough, the shame melts away when he leads you away from the crowd and into a more secluded alleyway. After haphazardly checking for anyone who might catch you, the two of you share an amorous kiss. It’s quick, fervent, and unrelenting as neither of you spare each other a breath between kisses. The man pins you to the wall with his larger frame, hands exploring your body and, from what you could feel, resisting the urge to rip your expensive dress apart. A hand slides up to your neck and soon the pressure around it increases. Your eyes close and you moan at the sensation as he tugs the ribbon slightly harder. The man’s lips pull up into a smirk as he kisses you. Something trails down your chest and you feel a breeze. A whine almost escapes your lips as you feel the man pull away. To your surprise, you see the mystery object is the ribbon, now in his hand, and he seems ready to leave.

“Don’t take this personally, _bella_. I promise we can continue this later.”

You barely know this man, but you amusedly agree to the lighthearted promise.  
  
“We’ll see about that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wonder who the guy is, hmmmm ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


	11. Cheaters Never Prosper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your ex-dance partner rightfully wins every game, but Silvio ensures otherwise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some canon divergence up ahead!
> 
> insp:  
> \- passacaille in barcelona, by taku matsushiba  
> \- and for some reason, girls in the hood, by megan thee stallion
> 
> as always, feedback is appreciated! enjoy <3

Since the day you lost your mother, you were never one to admit how much you actually needed her. Aside from helping you, as an uncoordinated child then, pick out clothing for festivals, she taught you everything she knew: reading, writing, mathematics, science, cooking; all the basic skills you needed to sustain yourself in a world you never expected to roam alone so soon. Even then, you weren’t alone, not with the family name and reputation that earned you special treatment and small estates to reside in.

But now, you are alone, unsure about the certain attraction you feel for a man who makes you nostalgic of a man you abandoned without a word, and unsure about the actions you were going to take. You can’t help but notice how he scales the walls and runs with ease, so similar to him. Your dance partner had the skill, strength, charisma, and sheer will to ensure his place as the winner of the games and the golden mask, a way into the Doge’s afterparty. Without a doubt, he proved himself worthy of the title and mask, and in some inconceivable way, he lost. To _Dante_ _Moro_.

Dante, the once noble and brave captain of the Venetian guard, was now an eerie shadow of the man he used to be. After a severe head injury, he now has the mentality and temperament of a child. Eventually, he was belittled in reputation to the point of becoming a personal bodyguard to Marco or Silvio. It hurt to see, especially when men like Silvio exploited Dante’s naivety to cheat his way into preventing commoners from winning the games and joining an extravagant afterparty riddled with wealthy socialites. Using bribery. _Typical_.

So when Silvio leaves Dante in your care, celebrating a job well done by paying a prostitute for a quick fuck before going back to work, you decide to rectify the event for the rightful winner. Still, a part of you did it for selfish reasons, such as your own quick fuck with the man who promised to finish where the two of you left off. Nonetheless, it was wrong and you were going to change that, despite the possible risks.

Seated on a bench with the mask in his hands, Dante doesn’t notice you approaching or sitting down next to him. You’ve seen the look on his face on many before, this was nothing new. Something was eating away at him and you had to find out why.

“Dante, are you alright?”

“...Yes.” Dante gives a pointed look to the mask, brows furrowed. Something was wrong, but you knew better than to directly confront him about it. Dante was not only childlike, he required delicacy when it came to matters of the heart — especially when Marco and Silvio constantly dismissed or belittled him.

“I believe congratulations is in order, it takes a lot of skill and strength to win every game like you did.” You place a hand on his shoulder, he doesn’t reject the touch so it remains there for a moment.

A very pointed comment on your end, whether Dante acknowledges your pointed comment, he doesn’t respond to it. Instead, his eyes are still fixated on the mask.

“What’s wrong, Dante?”

“ _This_.”

“The mask?” Said object glimmers in your periphery while you focus on Dante. You feign confusion, genuinely curious to see where this was going. “What’s wrong with it?”

“I don’t deserve it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Silvio told me it was mine, but now I feel bad.” It definitely showed in his resemblance to a sad puppy or beggar child on the streets. Ever the generous man, he still grasped onto the kindness of his heart. You thank God that Dante didn’t lose that.

“You feel bad because you didn’t win the mask, is that right?”

“Yes, yes, I don’t know what to do now.”

This was the tricky moment you waited for. You couldn’t simply tell him to give it to you. It would be too direct and easy to trace back to you, should Silvio discover the mask’s disappearance. Dante needs to think it’s his idea, and you knew of nothing better than the power of suggestion at this very moment. He doesn’t just need to think it’s his idea, it has to be his.

“Can’t you just give it back?” Such a simple-minded suggestion, even Dante might just do it himself, but simple enough for him to realize the preposterous nature of this suggestion.

“No! I have to stay here, unless…” There it is, the suggestion coming into the light of his mind, Dante’s own ideas bubbling to the surface. He looks up at you, eyes wide and brows raised like he just found the solution to his dilemma. “Can you give it back to him?”

Seeing the mask Dante places in your hands and the honesty in his kind eyes, you realize you have most of your work cut out for you.

“Of course, Dante.”

* * *

“I’m sorry, Ezio. We could not have known Silvio would cheat as he did.”

Antonio laughs after Teodora says her peace. He points to Ezio. “ _You_ should have.”

Angry, wronged, deceived, confused, frustrated. None of these words are enough to bring Ezio’s feelings to justice as he paces in front of Antonio and Teodora. Winning each game was easy, losing to a rich man’s bodyguard -- who didn’t join until the end -- was hard. The two of them do very little to soothe the younger assassin’s ego over the loss of a mask. It was bound to happen, says Teodora. It would be better to steal it, Antonio says. Ezio talks aloud, thinking it easier to get rid of Dante and take the mask from him then. The two senior assassins talk over Ezio’s haphazard plans, suggesting caution and subtlety over acting out of anger.

“I will go! I can catch him before he arrives at the party, and take back the mask --” Ezio strongly declares going through with his initial plans, given the stakes. He could simply dispose of Dante, run to the afterparty, eliminate a corrupt Templar Doge. Straightforward and simple. The assassin liked to believe that this plan could save the most time. There was no time for cloak and dagger.

Antonio whips around to give Ezio an incredulous look. “How, by killing the poor _stronzo_?”

“I don’t think that will be necessary.”

All heads turn to the source. Surrounded by courtesans under Teodora, you stand before them with the golden mask in hand.

“Just my luck.” Ezio isn’t really religious himself, but his luck definitely turned around in a way that seemed more like divine intervention. To receive the mask on a silver platter held by a beautiful woman he promised sinful activities to later, it definitely had to be a stroke of luck at least. He wastes no time in sauntering towards you to obtain the mask. “How did you get this?”

“Dante felt guilty. He saw to it that I gave this to its rightful owner.”

How you know Dante isn’t a question he has time to ask at this moment. Your coy smile doesn’t go unnoticed by the man. He doesn’t forget the taste of your lips and sensation of your body against his either. Holding the mask in one hand, he uses his free hand to stroke the side of your face. “You just want me to keep my promise, don’t you?”

“Is that so bad?” You feign hurt, placing both hands on your chest.

“ _Ahem_.”

Rather occupied with each other’s company despite the urgent matter at hand, the two of you almost forget about the people around you. The courtesans have already gone upstairs to their rooms, but Teodora and the thief you helped not too long ago stand close by. _He s_ _eems to be doing better, good_ , you think. Ezio, not ready to explain how the two of you already know each other, is somehow at a loss for words given the surprise visit. Awkward silence fills the air before Teodora finally speaks first.

“I see you have chosen the beaded net for your hair, well done.”

“ _Grazie_ , I had a lot of help.” You give her a small curtsy as a small joke between you. The two men look back and forth, wondering how you know each other. Neither of you acknowledge it. Having accomplished what you aimed for, it was time to leave and make your way to Marco’s ship. “It has been a pleasure. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m needed for the afterparty celebration."   
  
You give your dance partner a smile before you leave. "Maybe I’ll see you there, _ballerino_.”

"I intend to keep my promise, _bella_."

"You better."

At that, you finally leave. The door closes, leaving the three assassins amused and confused by the lucky encounter that demanded more explanation another time. But now is no time for such amusement, and Ezio would not let this opportunity go to waste.

* * *

_“_ _B_ _e mindful of your aim, Ezio. He will have his dottore right by his side at the party.”_

_“Antonio is right, we may have use for this dottore.”_

Easy enough, Ezio thinks as he seamlessly blends in with the crowd. Having followed you to the party, he sees that a lot of his work leading up to Marco is cut out for him. He stops further behind when he loses sight of you within the massive crowd surrounding the ship.

Marco slowly walks up the side of his ship to face the crowd waiting for his afterparty speech. Ever in need of more indulgence before _Carnevale_ ended, the people feigned asking for permission to partake in even more debauchery by the ship. The assassin doesn’t listen to the old man’s words, focusing on the current task of loading the gun on his wrist. A small click signals its readiness, unnoticed by the oblivious and inebriated people around him. No _dottore_ beside him, yet.

Fireworks start to shoot up into the sky, booming and flashing the world below with every imaginable colour. Ezio waits for more fireworks to go off so the gunshot blends in. He notices Marco extend a hand to someone behind him. A smaller hand is gently placed in his, and before Ezio knows it, a woman walks up beside Marco. Even more of a shock for him is how she glows in shades of blue and gold. 

_No_ , Ezio thinks, _it can't be..._

The doge’s _dottore_ was not just anybody, she was the woman he danced with earlier. _She_ went out of her way to give him the mask. As if to hurt him even more at once, _she_ is the very same woman who left him without a word four years ago.

Ezio doesn’t want to believe you’re on the Templars’ side in this war, but his eagle vision confirms that it’s definitely you under that mask, blue and gold swirling around your form. It takes everything in Ezio to suppress the amount of hurt he’s experienced in just one night. First he saw Cristina, then you came along; lifting his spirits with a fun dance, changing his luck with a mask… it wasn’t divine intervention that his luck changed. Luck was just that: luck and nothing more. Luck abandoned him when the ghosts of his past loves came back to haunt him in one night; one of them aiding the Templars. His aim almost wavers at the sight of you. Ezio resists the urge to stop himself, but when he pulls the trigger and sees the horror on your face as Marco falls limp and bloody in your arms, he wishes he did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gonna be away for a bit next week so im working on the outlines for the upcoming chapters, that way I can hammer them all out once i'm back hehe 
> 
> on another note, i never expected this amount of support especially bc ezio fics died out way back so i rly appreciate it!! it literally keeps me going ༼☯﹏☯༽ 
> 
> so basically, thank u, yes u, the reader (ɔ◔‿◔)ɔ♥


	12. Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A familiar face pays you a visit.

Something felt familiar during your walk back home on this Venetian night. Life booms around you as it’s still Carnevale, but the chills in your hands and heart tell you otherwise. Death loomed the city as news of Marco’s death spread throughout. Given your reputation, news of your failure to save him spread just as quickly, if not more. If she was better, he would not have died, people said already. It didn’t matter anymore, your employer and sponsor died, along with your source of income. Death loomed over you like a cruel joke, the coldness of its touch spreading around you as you sense that, when you step into your home, you’re not alone. But you found it to be the least of your worries, sauntering up the steps to your bedroom in pure ignorance of your intuition. The darkness of your home at night always made you feel this way. As you near the top, you toss your mask and accessories down the stairs without a thought. You could clean it up another day.

Fear strikes you down in the spot when the sight before you confirms your intuition. The moon does little to reveal his face, tracing his lean, hooded figure in white as he leans on the centre of your table. He eyes you in the entrance of your doorway.

“If you think I’m to blame for the Doge’s death, then have at it.” You reach for the dagger hidden in your dress, extending it and swinging side to side. “But I won’t give out.”

The man tilts his head as if he was not expecting that to be the first thing you’d say. His silhouette grows taller as he stands upright and inches towards you. “That’s not why I’m here.”

This catches your attention right away and his nearing proximity angers you further. Not too long ago, you heard that very same voice tonight. Under another circumstance, you’d be more than happy to entertain the thought of him conveniently keeping his promise, albeit the creepiness of it all. _Just what did you get yourself into? Who is this man?_ He might only sound similar. Even worse, he just might have the skill to fatally end you given his expertise in breaking into your home.

You stay where you are, rooted in your position as you demand to see his face. “Who are you?”

“Who are _you_?” He mocks you while taking another step.

Your dagger gleams in the moonlight, a silver stream outlining the swing of your warning attack. “Step any closer and I will gut you like a fish, _stronzo_.”

“I doubt that.” Something about the familiarity in his voice makes the mockery hurt even more. Not only is it mockery, there is certainty in his voice that tells you he doubts it with good reason, but it strikes a chord in you that makes you want to swing the knife and get rid of the intruder.

So when he takes one more step forward, you do.

Much to your dismay, your assessment of his skill is correct. The darkness does little to help you when he easily disarms you. The knife clatters to the floor. Left defenseless, you swing your arms blindly, wildly. You hope in your wild tornado of punches that you could hit him somehow, but you don’t. You feel his body avoid your fists, shifting like wind around an object, and soon you feel a warm body wrap around behind you.

A warm breath hits the side of your face, large hands clasp around your wrists in an iron grip you fail to escape.

“Let me go, _stronzo_!” Tension burns in your wrists when you strain against the taller man’s body. It’s no use to struggle against him when he’s holding you in place like steel vines.

The intruder doesn’t listen, if anything his grip gets tighter, just enough for you to think for a second that he’s holding back. You’re exposed with your arms spread out and soon he wraps them up towards your middle, swaddling you with his own arms while you writhe against him.

He ignores your protests and asks you about wealthy men you’ve only treated in passing; your involvement with them, what their intentions are, and what’s next. Confusion twists inside you as you continue to struggle against him. Fear strikes harshly once again at the thought of the consequences for not providing any answers he seeks. You admit your occupation, stating over and over that you know nothing else.

At your feeble answers, he flips you around. The wind is knocked out of you when he shoves you onto the desk with a hand on your chest. You feel him place himself between your legs and the implication of the position urges you to scramble away and pick at his eyes. The attempt is no good and his hands pin you down.

“Stop.”

The command resonates in the quiet room. Against your better judgement, you comply. You open your eyes and hold still for a second, unaware that you closed your eyes in the first place. His shadow grows larger as his face gets closer to yours. The two of you bask in the moonlight and the stranger’s face is revealed.

“...Ezio?”

* * *

Memories of your intimate days spent together bring your heart to skip a beat. After four years, you never would have thought your reunion would occur this way. To encounter two men you desired - one you met tonight, and one you dearly missed and abandoned - only to find out they're one and the same stirred a number of emotions you never imagined going through at your age. The hopeless romantic in you always imagined a non-violent reunion, where you would spot each other out of the blue and run towards each other for an embrace. You’d apologize, Ezio would understand, and eventually the two of you would see where the path of being lovers could take you. In other daydreams, you’d thought of seeking him out yourself to make things right, and he would forgive you and accept you with open arms. Now, his arms are open, pinning you down while he stares at you with anger you’d only ever heard of in rumours back in the day in Firenze. In all your days dreaming, you never wanted to face his rightful anger and disappointment, but this was the reality before you.

You nearly forget he’s pinning you down, until you attempt to caress his face and his grip tightens.

Ezio definitely aged well in the past four years, yet something tells you you’re not the only reason for the pain and weariness that makes itself transparent if you look at him long enough. Facial hair starts to grow on his face, his voice is deeper, and the gold in his eyes shine brighter than ever in anger and pain -- all of it directed at you.

“If you don’t know the answers, then tell me one thing.” He squeezes just a bit harder when he says this. He wants nothing and everything from you all at once, the hurt in his voice layers with frustration at your past departure. “Tell me why you left without a word.”

But you hold none of the answers for the questions overflowing within him. The silence does nothing to mask the quivering or breathlessness in your voice.

“Believe me, Ezio. I never wanted to leave. I had to.”

His gaze wavers in conflict. More questions bubble to the surface but before he can ask any of them, he looks down at you. Ezio knows, through your silence, that you’re giving him the time and space to collect his thoughts. He revels in the familiarity, welcomes it. Mentally, he scolds himself for admiring your face in the moonlight and getting lost in the way your hair flows around you like a river. His eyes trail to the items he knocked down above your head, and the glint of one in particular catches his eye.

A small frame, no larger than Ezio’s hands, lay flat above your head. He could see small, red pieces of something brittle pressed flat against the glass. Petals of a single rose were arranged to form the flower it once was. Scribbled on the bottom right corner was the year. 1482. Four years ago, from the night you kissed him first.

“You still left.”

The look in Ezio's eyes changes, and without another word, he storms out through the window. Your pleas for him to stay are ignored.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tfw you try to apologize and the other person just jumps out your window
> 
> anyway, updates to follow when i come back some time next week! outlines are ready heh. 
> 
> stay cool and hydrated, fellas (▱∀◕)ﾉ ♥


	13. Piombi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because of their failure, Silvio is dead and Dante is missing. Rumours of Marco’s death spread like wildfire around the city, warning you that soon you’ll be next.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a lot of stuff started piling up, so the updates are taking me longer than I thought. 
> 
> here's a short update while I work on the saucier updates to follow ┌( ಠ‿ಠ)┘
> 
> warning: violence

You killed Marco. At least, that’s what everyone said. As soon as you held his hand, he hunched over in pain, bleeding and expression blank from shock. From the lack of evidence and your circumstantial position at the afterparty, this was the verdict: you’re already guilty, the guards just needed to find you. In the void of a power vacuum and struggle to replace Marco, it had to be you. Whispers of your crimes and other blatant lies fill the streets the next day, tainting you as you pass through the streets in your black cloak.

This life was not safe for you. It never was. Framed for the death of the man who defended you, you’re dubbed with such derogatory terms, you almost wish you never practiced medicine in the first place. Among those with the privilege to access your services, nobody else was willing to defend you. As quickly as you rose to a private fame, you fell from the wealthy’s graces. They denounced you left and right, spilling lies from their lips about every encounter they’ve had with you. Lies through omission and commission sent you to the depths of public favour.

You realized too late on your trek towards the city gates that nowhere is safe. Anyone wearing suspicious attire, doctor or not, was rounded up wherever guards were stationed. It didn’t take long for them to find you. Hiding in plain sight is no option, the wealthy have seen your face, but keeping the cloak makes you suspicious.

By a strange stroke of misfortune, your facade as a sick woman makes you no exception to the round up. When you see an old man pointing directly at you as he stands beside tall men in dark clothing, it’s too late. To your surprise, guards aren’t the ones to take you to _Piombi_ , the prison underneath the roof of the Doge’s palace. They’re dressed in dark, formal clothing. If it wasn’t for the crucifix on their outer coats, you would’ve guessed they were wealthy people dragging you to the prison of lead. Instead, they resemble the personal guards of Marco’s smaller circle of wealthy men. Exuding mystery and danger, you resort to compliance in their steel grips.

Your compliance does little to defend you from punches to the face, hands wrangling your throat, or kicks to your stomach. You’d heard of this tactic before. It wasn’t just senseless violence or an abuse of power, it was sometimes a physical form of breaking you. Already, they’ve started on their path to breaking you down.

Winded, bloody, and confused, you quickly accept the lack of opportunity to escape the authorities’ grasp.

* * *

To break someone completely, physical torture was often the segway into mental torture. The men didn’t kill you as you expected. Thrown into the dirtiest cell under the roof of the Doge’s palace, you assume the harsh conditions will kill you instead. Swift justice, the public called it. Treason, governors deemed your actions as such. You would’ve called it treason in your own way, betrayal of Venezia’s own citizens through such an unfair call. In its own occurrence to you, such a punishment could happen to anyone.

It burns to open your eyes, a fire is left in the wake of every blink and stretch. After hours of being unconscious from the beatings, it was as painful as it was hard to see. The men who apprehended you showed you no mercy. You hear a grunt echo through the cell when you try to sit up. Black and purple reminders of your arrest tell you it’s your own cries of pain keeping you company in the nasty cell. Your struggle ends in you propping yourself up against the lead walls, slumping to the side to alleviate the aches all over your body. Justice was blind to the people it was meant to protect. A doctor of your own caliber was no exception. Wiping the spit and rotten vegetables off your face, you realize it’s always been this way.

A grimace makes its way to your face when the door slams open, the metal shrieking as it drags across the floor. You squint at the blurry figure who enters, the trauma and light being difficult to overcome. By the time you’re able to make out a hooded figure, a small gasp escapes your bloody lips. Their hood masks their face, its red accents outlining their frame while the rest of the hooded cape fuses with the darkness around you two. Disappointment lines your face when you realize they’re not who you think they are.

“Expecting someone else?” The man’s voice is thin and scratchy, and doesn’t sound like anyone you’ve ever met. He notes the look of hope that briefly flashed in your expression at his entrance. You did hope someone else would come, but you didn’t want to admit it to yourself or this man either. If he was going to be so bold, he’d have to use his words.

“Who?”

“Cut the act, _puttana._ ” He snaps. “I know of your little escapades with the Auditore. I have eyes and ears all over Italy, it’s a shame that your mother never taught you about it.” 

“How do you know about my mother? What does that have to do with any of this?” Your voice cracks in your efforts to level it. This man had power through information, and you don’t even know who he is. Part of you doesn’t want to know. 

“Enough for you to know that you will bear the responsibility of those who have wronged me.”

“What’s going to happen to me?” Your voice trembles. Pain wreaks havoc on your throat when you raise your voice. It hurts even more when he intentionally ignores questions about your mother. Attempts to sit upright fail when your arms buckle beneath you, leaving you a fumbling mess before the man. “You can’t just leave me here to rot!”

“Your whore of a mother had the privilege to rot in her sleep with poison in her veins.” The hooded man only exhales a laugh, amused by your temporary cease in struggling and the confusion in your puffy eyes. “Snakes in the grass are swiftly dealt with, but so rarely are they granted an audience.”

The man doesn’t give you enough time or space to process the information when he continues as he makes his exit.

“Tomorrow, you hang.”


	14. History Repeats

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> News of your fate hits too close to home.

Death had many capabilities. Death, _morte_ in your tongue, was more than the end, more than loss itself. On its own, death transcended godliness on a level no other conceivable notion in the human imagination could. Its tendrils wrap around every fibre of living organisms, every fibre of reality. Death, and the knowledge of one’s impending death, held power over something no other being should have. Not one for favourites, objective and through no will of its own, death warped time.

It wasn’t to make one feel just the extra nudge of pressure from knowing about one’s doom, it was simply just there. Whether or not you wanted more time to escape your fate, or have less pressure to simply get it over with, you don’t know anything at this very moment. Nothing else is on your mind but the fact that you will die. In less than an hour, the heavy sludge of time that pushes down on your shoulders would be over. Your bloodline will end with you at the drop of a floorboard, and with a strange twist of the bones in your neck. This is it, you try to tell yourself, but you’re inconsolable.

At this moment as your head bobs in response to every shove, you feel as if you’ve died already. Your vision swings with the rest of your body, drunk on the torture of yesterday. With your feet just barely dragging across the cement, occasionally you’re thrown forward by sets of arms, you could only wish you had the carriage ride most criminals had the luxury of on their way to the gallows. One moment, you have a muddled view of the gallows before you, the next moment you can barely see and by the time you open your eyes again, the gallows and noose grow larger. Time was passing by and you could barely keep up.

The second you’re within view of the crowds, you’re bombarded with insults and rotten produce ready just for you. You don’t bother resisting the force of fruits or spit splattering against your face. The people were not going to listen. By vast majority and rumours that burned through the city, you were nothing but guilty in their eyes. Resistance won’t change their minds, especially not from you alone. Your throat burns as you hold sobs back, shaking at the force wracking inside you. Tears blur your vision as they spring from your eyes like an endless stream.

“The _cagna_ deserves it!” You hear a man yell from a distance. The crowd roars in agreement, and the insults grow from short curse words to drawn out sentences for how your punishment should be carried.

“Burn her at the stake!”

“Let’s stone her!”

“Beat her with a club!”

You flinch at the violent suggestions, and more at the fact that if it was legal, they probably would have taken it. The hatred in the people’s actions and faces starts an ache in your chest that grows heavier by the second.

Ever so close, the noose seems to glow under the sunlight as you now stand at the base of the gallows. Your heart bursts from your ribs at the sight. This is going to be your last day alive, and the fact screams in your face. It is inescapable. The surroundings are heavy, and you lack the strength and resolve to escape.

Each step ascended towards the gallows thrums within your body. Time speeds up as it slows down in a form of sweet torture as you go up the steps. Suddenly, there is an endless supply of stairs and slabs of lead chains to your ankle. Each step is an agonizing effort of dragging your feet up the steps. Your silent effort drowns out the crowd. There’s a ringing in your ears that deafens you to the slurs and the produce thrown your way. It’s quiet, loud, and nonsensical overall. Reaching the final step of the platform opens the gates of sound once more, and the noose hovers gloriously above you like a cursed halo.

Covered in dirt, spit, blood, and rotten fruits, it’s evident that you’ve fallen from grace, you’re the empty shell of the woman you once were. Bloody and broken, you struggle to stand straight once you’re placed in the middle of the gallows. You hardly feel your age in your current condition. Saliva dribbles down your swollen lips as you eye the people around you. The hooded man from yesterday stands beside the _gonfaloniere_ , pompous and ready for your execution. He’s less intimidating in the light, but his composure and the inability to see his face still unnerves you. Although he blends into the background, the man’s presence and silent terror makes up for that of the guards’ and _gonfaloniere’s_.

None of it compares to the noose being wrapped and tightened around your neck. The pain is yet to come, but the anticipation would surely kill you just as quick. Yet, the process is drawn out, a sick joke from the gods up above. At a grueling pace, tendrils pull at the strings attached to human vessels carrying out your execution. Trivial matters of violence and justice were a source of entertainment, even to celestial beings beyond human knowledge.By the end of it, the noose is securely wrapped around your neck, its rough texture doesn’t bother you as much as its purpose.

When the _gonfaloniere_ shouts your name, time seems to stop for the first time that day. His dainty finger stretches out, and justice points at you in all its glory.

“Never before have we seen such hubris, you wicked woman, practicing this ‘science’- the arts of the Devil, poisoning Italia’s people and, as a result, murdering our beloved _Doge_ Marco Barbarigo!” Somehow, the crowd grows larger, louder at the older man’s booming voice. In the midst of noise, his voice cuts through like a forged blade.

“...Rivera da Firenze, you stand accused of not just one crime, but three: fraud, murder, and treason!”

The list of your crimes never seemed to end. As if to add more to the blow, the waves of people start to boo you for your alleged crimes. The onslaught of rotten produce rages on, hitting you and the creaky floorboards. Splatters of purple, red, and green leak around you. A guard behind you yanks the nape of your neck to make you stand upright, preventing you from avoiding anything from slamming into your face. You squirm against the grip.

“Stop moving,” the guard squeezes your wrists tighter than the rope restraining you. You obey and stand still, eyes forward. The tears continue to flow, just barely stopping when the guard gives a gentler squeeze.

The _gonfaloniere_ bellows on, urging the crowd to rage against you. “What say you? Do you have any evidence to counter the charges?”

“I didn’t do it!” It takes more energy than you expect to find your voice. When you do, it comes out a raspy shriek. The crowd is displeased with your response. Everyone disliked that and drowned you out with shouts of their own.

“Liar!” A woman yells from the front.

“ _You_ have no proof that I murdered the _Doge_! As a doctor I helped, I cured people. If you ask any wealthy patient honest enough they will tell you the same -- ”

“ENOUGH!” The _gonfaloniere_ holds his hands out on each side, a show of impartiality that everyone knows doesn’t exist. “By public favour, you are deemed unworthy of your last prayer rites.”

You let out a blood-curdling scream only for it to remain muffled among the cheers of the crowd. The tears burn as they blur your vision and run down your cheeks. Your voice scratches thin as you start to cry incoherently. Pleas for help from anybody or deity, go unheard, your throat becoming hoarse from dehydration. Anguish was embodied by you today, but no one felt sorry for you. The people want your death, they demand it.

“It’s what the _puttana_ deserves!”

“Hang her now!”

“Have faith.”

  
For a brief second, you think it’s the _gonfaloniere_ reassuring you, but his lips do not match the sound of the soft voice. The _gonfaloniere_ condemns you, uttering the words that precede signalling the guard on your left to pull the lever for the drop.

The guard behind you gives your wrists another gentle squeeze and the breeze finds its way through the ropes, directly drawing across your wrists. Amidst your own cries and screams, you notice that the bindings are loose. A hand stops you from turning your head, yanking your hair to make you face the front. You hear a whisper that grows quieter as the guard steps away.

“I’m with you.”

You see a flash of a white hood pushing through the crowd. While you recognize the fit of the assassin before you, the voice behind you leaves you at a loss.

“In the absence of compelling evidence against the charges, I am bound to pronounce you guilty. You are hereby sentenced to DEATH!”

The clanging of arm braces is all you need to know that the guard by the lever is about to pull it. It echoes, cutting through the shouts of the crowd and your own.

Your heart beats harder than ever, too large for the cage it’s in. Time slows, yet the lack of prayer rites makes it all go too fast. The guard takes especially long to pull the lever even after the _gonfaloniere_ gives his thumbs down. You stop and stare straight at the sky. The sun blazes over your bloody face, and sounds are distorted, muted as you stare at the birds flying above.

The lever creaks. Someone reaches out to you, but he’s out of reach and inaudible. The faces of your loved ones are all you see fixed over the people in the crowd. They welcome you. You hear the winds being sliced behind you, a soft whoosh. Your heart races and you can feel it ripple through your body, expecting the drop, but the drop doesn’t come.

Onlookers regard you with shock and awe, which you soon realize is not directed at you. Instead, it’s focused directly onto the guard assigned to the lever. Eyes wide with his hands wrapped around his neck, blood seeps onto his uniform, painting his torso red. He points to the guard behind you with their arm outstretched, but before you can turn, he falls and smoke fills the air.

Time is of the essence. With your hands free, you cover your face and feel your way around to find something to cut the noose. Someone beats you to it, pulling it off and whipping it elsewhere.

“You!” The hooded man hisses, accusatory tone directed somewhere in your direction. “Kill her! Kill them both!”

The guards ignore him, struggling to see and breathe through their armor and uniforms. It takes less than 5 seconds for the smoke to completely engulf the gallows. Crowd members yell in confusion and disperse.

Your saviour grabs your hand and the two of you bolt. Your legs burn at the pace he sets. Any kind of running is not for you. Distance was torture, sprinting was You wanted to wheeze, but the presence of a silent and breathless man makes you hold it back — barely.

“Thank…” you huff. “You, agh!”

“Thank me later,” He rushes out. There’s a lilt to his voice that you recognize but can’t place.

He rounds a corner, squeezing your clammy hands in fear of letting go. Faces blur while you sprint aimlessly. You have no choice but to follow him to the ends of the city. This all feels familiar, but you still can’t place it. It’s not Ezio, it’s not his voice. Mulling over your memories temporarily distracts you from the strain in your thighs and lungs.

The markets are busy, so the man pulls you through it. He slows the pace just enough to blend in with the bustling workers and customers. With a gentle shove here and there, you turn another corner that leads to an alley. The clamor of the guards’ footsteps are barely audible. Clueless, they whip their heads in every direction before running the opposite way.

Your saviour leads you to the end of the alleyway: a dead end.

“What?!” You panic, anger bubbling in your chest at being misled.

The man holds a hand up to shush you. He digs his fingers into a small opening between the bricks on the wall. When he tugs, a wooden lever springs from within. For some reason, the old, creaky thing glows, and you almost lose sight of the man when he pulls it and enters the much larger opening created by the shifting bricks. You gawk at the secret doorway behind the dead end. The man yanks you in with him before the bricks slide back and bury the secret entrance.

Darkness soon envelops the space, and you’ve no choice but to keep following the sound of the man’s footsteps before you. You get the feeling he’s not one for talking until he’s absolutely sure you’re free from immediate danger, so you don’t push any more questions onto him. The trip down feels endless. It’s silent, save for when you try to thank him for saving your life. He tells you to save it, so you do.

Eventually, the path down leads to another tunnel that goes straight down into what resembles water. The man eyes you, beckoning to go first.

“Uh… I don’t think so.” You hesitate and take a step back from the manhole.

“Okay, then you can stay here without any light.” The man quips, stepping up to the hole. “ _Buon giorno_.”

“Alright, alright!” You pull him back and step up. “I’ll go first.”

He hums quietly in response, as if to say he told you so. “Just remember, the waters can be treacherous. Jump feet first, arms crossed over your chest.”

“ _Si_.”

Hopping into the hole, you do as instructed. Adrenaline surges through you once again. The gust of wind on the way down forces you to hold your breath and close your eyes. There’s but a few seconds until your feet plunge into the cold water, curving upwards and buffering the impact of falling straight down. Your clothes make it a challenge to rise up, weighing you down as you swing your arms. Large ripples hit you as you swim up to the surface, indicating that the man has joined in.

Cold, stifling air enters you when you finally reach the surface. You take a large breath in and continue pushing forward. As you swim, you marvel at the sight of intricate structures before you. The buildings, you now realize, must be ancient in origin. They’re dusty and not what they used to be, but it was still a remnant of history before you. The structures bordered around the doorway leading to more underground paths. _Where does this lead?_ You wonder.

Swimming only gets more difficult as you continue, and as soon as you’ve come up for air, the weight starts to bring you down again. Good timing, you muse when the man catches up. He wastes no time in swimming in front of you, placing his hands on your cheeks to make you face directly up while he tows you to land.

The view above reminds of you of the stars in the sky. Stones with the occasional gleam of little sparkles riddled the darkness that led to the hole you dropped in from. It amazes you, that such a location could even exist. Laying on your back as you’re waded to shore makes it seem like drifting in the skies with celestials. At this moment, all you can think about is that the world isn’t as you knew it. You knew nothing, but the artificial skies tell you that you’re lucky enough to see the secrets of this place, lucky enough to survive.

Soon, your time in daydreams and disbelief ends when you reach the platform.

The man hoists you up with ease, and finally you get a clear look at your saviour’s face. It isn’t Ezio, this much you already knew. Any thanks left on your tongue stills when you see the details of his face. Only when he starts to answer the questions on your mind, does he confirm the one thought ringing clearly in your head. You don’t know what you expected, but of all the people to save you, your father is not one of the people who come to mind.


	15. Repetition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Months go by. Nothing is the same -- or so you think.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> life happened and things started to pile up suddenly this month, so this update took longer than I wanted and going forward, updates will likely be slow. but not forgotten! :^)
> 
> this update is a little shorter. Freed up some time for myself, got high and hammered this out bc I miss it sm. Nonetheless I hope you enjoy! I appreciate the support this story has gained over time. I appreciate all of you <3

To say this situation was odd would be an understatement. It wasn’t just odd, to meet your father twenty something years later. It was confusing, uneasy, and just awkward to pick up on a relationship that hadn’t -- but should have -- existed since the day you were born.

It started with a question, then two, then three and then some.

Your father, Ricardo, was a nice enough man for you to consider trusting him with the bare minimum, much less your life. He’s tall, rugged, and not at all what you expected from your mother’s descriptions. Even more surprising to you is just how damn stoic he looks despite stories about his _humour_.

Who your father is in relation to you was a revelation you’d come across before in a tiny mention. A secret war between assassins and templars, freedom and order, is real -- was real for thousands of years. Symbols of their respective orders flashed in your mind. You’d seen it before, memorized it, and soon forgot the day you were left alone in the world.

_“We fight this secret war for the greater good.”_

You left this secret world behind twice and you’d do it again in the months you’d taken up residence with Ricardo. Yet, the truth was hard to come by, even more so from an absent father, and you had no other choice. There wasn’t a chance you’d be able to leave a master only to fall prey to a society that deemed you a criminal that was marked for death.

For some time, you considered yourself a hostage or prisoner of your father. He showed you no mercy in the teaching of his and your mother’s ways: the ways of the Order. You needed to learn how to fight, to survive, and he’d do whatever it took to prevent an outcome like your mother’s. In time, you realized you were never a hostage.

You lost months to Ricardo’s training, but you were better for it.

He took you on missions and one day operated alone. Simple bribes, targeted rumours, but mainly, selling your medical concoctions and wares wherever the demand was. With the plague still rampant, your business thrived as if it never suffered at all. You missed the personal touch of your old work, but the contactless and faceless business worked out for everyone, especially you. The work was easy, and you had the greatest teachers to thank.

Nobody remembered the faces of public enemies for very long, and your father took advantage of this with the use of a female cadaver placed just outside of the hideout. The public demanded justice and it was achieved with a dead woman who just barely resembled you. The public’s collective memory fared you well.

Months went by and nothing had changed but you. Your hair and choice of clothing, the way you walked and talked - you left behind the woman you were the day of the hanging. Never again. Part of you thinks you never changed.

That part of you sticks out, now, when you go on this particular mission alone. It was simple - get in, sell information, get out. The diplomat you were to meet with was late, that stronzo. You expected his lack of professionalism, at least, not when it comes to the intel you carry in your pouch. An accident would make him this late. It’s been 20 minutes and you feel like a fool standing in an alley beneath the moonlight. Could be a number of things, but one of them becomes the most obvious with every growing second.

_Sabotage_.

The worst is confirmed when you hear a man’s voice. Its depth and demand for attention commands you to look, ringing bells in your mind. For the second time, you were sure you’d never see him again only to be proven wrong. Your perfect stranger emerges from the shadows beside you.

“He won’t be coming tonight.” The man in question doesn’t step any closer and leans on the wall.

“I am aware of that now.” You tuck your pouch behind you and pull your hood down even more. _Of all the ways to meet again…_ “What do you want?”

He doesn’t respond and even with his hood pulled over his eyes, he practically asks if you’ve ever met before.

“I don’t have time for this.” You don’t answer the question in his eyes, and you don’t dare show yours. With a scoff, you turn your back on him and walk away.

You take your time walking away from the temptation to make things right with him, but you know you can’t do that just yet. Quite possibly, you might not ever be able to in this life. So you walk, like you’ve never met this man in your life and you hope to _Dios_ you could sell the act.

A minute in, you think you’ve put enough distance between you two, so you bolt.

It’s your mistake to think you’d be able to sell the act to a man of his calibre. The second you run, he’s already started sprinting himself.  
You lose the better part of half an hour to the chase he puts you through. Where he had the speed, you had the agility to weave through tight spots at a moment’s notice. A sudden turn here and there makes all the difference in this pursuit. Neither of you let up. You wouldn’t dream of it.

“Tired yet?” You shout back at him.

“I can do this all night,” comes his unfortunate reply.

_Merda_.

Bricks clatter where the two of you continue wayward to the top of the church tower. Your legs burn. It’s been a while since you climbed at this speed, but you’ve still got the will to ignore it. A grunt escapes your lips as you jump up to reach a ledge. The rest of the chase is quiet the higher you go and you wish you could take more time to admire the view as you climb. The winds blow in your ear, just barely muffling the sound of him scaling the walls below you.

“I could always jump, _stronzo_.”

The man below you scoffs and shakes his head.

“Do you not believe me, _assassino_?” You look down at him between your legs and gasp as you jolt on the spot.

The man jolts at the same time, expecting to catch you but you don’t fall.

“Just kidding.”

The man doesn’t find your antics amusing and suddenly, he’s climbing faster and tired of holding back on what seemed to be an easy chase. You curse and try to outclimb him, quickly clambering onto the large white ledge in the centre of the building. Your legs were burning too fast, growing heavier by the second as you tried to escape his grasp. To your benefit, the ledge leads you right to the top of the bell tower. You pull yourself in and stand.

To your dismay, your assailant is right behind you.

Normally this was the time to stare back at the man you led on this blasted chase. Instead, you stare at the scenery before you. It’s quiet, save for the winds and your breaths. Venice at night wasn’t just a sight to behold, it was a sight that took some getting used to. Nightfall brought out the worst in people, including you. For a holy city, many of its powerful citizens were not.

“What do you want from me?” You swiftly turn on him.

“You know exactly what I want.” The man eyes the pouch around your waist.

_The letter._

“You know this could cost me,” you say with a weary voice as you instinctively try to shove the pouch behind you.

“And I know you can handle it.” He smirks down at you. A couple of seconds pass by and his smirk doesn’t falter. You roll your eyes with a sigh and hand the letter over.

“What else could you possibly want from me, assassin?” You ask, back turned.

The hooded man saunters closer, much closer until you can feel him right behind you. There’s pressure on your arms and your world spins as he forces you to face him. You swat his arm away before he can do anything else but he blocks it, trapping your whole body against him. He leans into your ear and whispers.

“I want what was promised to me last night, _cara mia_.”

You waste no time in ripping off Ezio’s hood and fulfilling every little dirty promise made the night before at the same bell tower.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> reader be like: instructions unclear, banged an ex I abandoned years ago
> 
> && more answers to come


	16. Disillusioned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ezio sees you again for the first time since the execution.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fellas, life is a binch. deadlines left and right??? writer's block??? 3 different drafts before I settle on the one™??? anyway, after 84 years, here is an update! although my updates here on out will be super slow, i am committed to continuing this story! 
> 
> music insp: mary's theme by stelvio cipriani 
> 
> && this chapter takes place before ch.15, mainly from Ezio's pov. 
> 
> ** update: someone brought this up and i realize it's been a while since reader's last name is mentioned (ch.14) : at one point in this chapter, reader is addressed by last name
> 
> enjoy ~ 💖(◕‿◕✿)💖

Ezio believes there is a purpose in his life, but for the majority of his adult life so far, he contemplates admitting to his own disillusions about the path he was on. Passionate and confident as he is, a tiny part of him wants to believe his life is a joke for many reasons, but in this instance it’s for two. First, someone specifically requested to meet with Ezio to discuss their concerns about the plague. The plague that was already concerning in nature. Teodora urged him to go, so he took it as a sign that this was legitimate. Second, Teodora told him to look for a man in blue, waiting by the docks in the southern district.

To his dismay, there is no man, but a woman in blue who takes his place. Time stops when she turns to face him. It's not just any woman. This is a woman whose infamy precedes her through the streets of _Venezia_. Her demise functions as a cautionary tale that justice is swiftly delivered for anyone who dared strive for more.

There you stand, alive and well. 

Accolades were all you had to go by in the months that passed, and you had many: _la bellezza impiccata, signora ciarlatano, la morte bianca_. Your real name was long gone and struck from records, but your crime and punishment would be on everyone's tongue for years to come.

“I hope the past few months have been kind to you, Ezio,” you start. “I wish this meeting was under better circumstances.”

So did Ezio, but he does not word it aloud. The assassin almost forgets the purpose of this meeting until you break the silence. How could he remember, especially when faced with the ghost of a woman? Like his father and brothers, you stood on the gallows, pleading for your life and urging others to think for themselves. Your eyes were hopeless, shiny with tears —

“Shall we address the tension of my being here, or shall we get straight to business?”

Your cold tone is not the one he knew you to have. It isn’t warm, it isn’t scratchy, you’re not screaming. Somehow, you’re alive but your voice betrays it, conceals the woman you used to be.

“Don’t you have a medicinal business to run?” Ezio bites his tongue in a failed attempt to curb the anger threatening to expose how he truly feels about seeing you like this. He keeps his distance, positioning himself against the brick walls adjacent to where you stand on the docks.

“Checking up on me, are you?”

There’s a small lilt in your voice, amusement flowing from your tongue as you morbidly joke. Ezio can practically hear you smirk as you speak behind a thin veil around your face.

“Yes,” he answers as he narrows his eyes, “...to make sure you were dead for good.”

“Oh,” is all that comes from your mouth. Ezio tries to ignore the slight change in your stony expression, eyes fluttering to the floorboards as you regain composure. He didn’t bother answering properly the first time, so you make the decision for him. “I’ll explain why I arranged this meeting and, if you so choose, _us_.”

Ezio nods.

“First, Teodora did not lie to you about the contact being a man, at first. He was supposed to be my proxy, but I decided this is too important to not come personally. The reason I come to you directly is only a small part of, possibly, an issue larger than us.”

“And that issue is…?” Ezio crosses his arms.

The look in your eye changes as you continue, filled with resolve and conflict in accepting that this may very well be out of your control, as well as his. “There is a man who travels through poorer districts all around _Italia_ , claiming to have healing abilities.”

“That sounds like a good thing.”

You scoff, continuing nonetheless. “At face value yes, but it is one thing for people to miraculously be cured of the plague, and another when the same people cannot conceive children of their own.”

“I am assuming you have proof of this.” Ezio’s eyes bore into yours.

As if on cue, you reach into your pouch and hand him a batch of letters and posters, all of them from various cities in Italy. The papers tell the tale of a healer who graces the poor with his presence in their time of need. He rids them of the plague with a baptism. A man of the people in his short time roaming the streets, he inspires people to turn back to God and seek penance for immorality. Only in God will they find peace and become the picture of health yet again.

“ _Sono tutte stronzate_ ,” you sneer at the papers in his hands. “The man says he was granted immaculate abilities by The Prophet.”  
  
“What did you just say?” Ezio’s attention switches back to you in an instant. Just how deep did this conspiracy run beneath the city of _Venezia_?

“This one calls himself The Prophet, but… ” you pause. The hesitance in your voice is evident to the assassin even if you tried to hide it. “We know him as Rodrigo Borgia.”

Ezio’s own suspicions are confirmed once you name the man he sought. “How do you know of him?”

“He paid me a visit on the day of my execution.” You turn towards the water, anger bubbling to the surface the longer you spoke of him. “The _stronzo_ knows something about my mother that I do not. I am still trying to find answers.”

“Then it seems we have a common enemy,” Ezio declares. Of all the people he could ally himself with, you were the last to come to mind. Silence follows after you nod in agreement. What feels like a minute passing is only seconds before you remember what you said earlier.

“I suppose now is the time to discuss the other topic, only if you agree.”

“ _Va bene_ , make it quick.” Ezio uncrosses his arms and gets off the wall, making it obvious he was ready to leave.

“Really?” You scoff. “Just like that? Don’t you have anything to say?”

Your words get a reaction out of him. His hands flail as he speaks out of anger, voice low, tone pointed.

“What is there to say?” Ezio’s hands fall to his side out of frustration.

“Something,” you suggest, “ _Anything_.”

You take a step forward, but Ezio’s voice prevents you from taking another.

“I saw you, years after you left me without a word,” Ezio starts, voice quieter now. “Days after I see you at _Carnevale_ , you were about to be executed —”

Ezio’s heart is hammering against his ribs as he relives the two executions he’d witnessed in his life. Death was a part of his new life, but the harrowing instances where he’d been unable, but so close, where prevention was out of his hands and all he could do was watch.

_Eyes pleading, voices growing hoarse after screaming for mercy. Ezio shoves his way through the crowd, he has to get closer to the gallows, to you._

_“In the absence of compelling evidence against the charges, I am bound to pronounce you guilty. You are hereby sentenced to DEATH!”_

_No, it’s too soon, Ezio thinks. Time is fickle in the worst moments._

_He’s too far to do anything without compromising his own position. The throwing knives glint on his belt, signalling him to be used. He grabs one and shoots it forward, aiming at the guard by the lever. The knife embeds itself into the guard’s neck. As he sinks to his knees, making a feeble attempt to point at the crowd. But the weight of his armour subjects him to fall, and he ends up pointing at the man behind you with a morbid twist of his bloody body._

_The man behind you nods in his direction before he disappears with you in tow._

_Ezio thinks he’s succeeded in preventing your death._

_Until, that is, your dead body is paraded through the streets —_

“I thought you died, Rivera.” Ezio shakes the memories away as he tries to ground himself in the present. “I mourned you.”

“Ezio…” You wait for a moment before you offer an apology. “I am truly sorry for the pain I’ve caused. Let me make it up to you.”

“Enough!” Ezio’s voice booms. “We will work together to stop this heretic, then we go our separate ways.”

You grab his arm as he turns away to leave. “I am trying to make amends, I cannot say the same for you!”

“Me?” Ezio spins around to give you a look of disbelief. You were the one who left, faked your death. “Amends are unnecessary —”

You strike him across the face before he can finish his sentence.

“Do not forget who took the fall when you killed Marco!”

Your stony expression is long gone. Anger contorts your face as you raise your voice at Ezio. Where the assassin gradually reveals his anger, the sudden change is a stark revelation of your own. There's fire and _pain_ in your eyes as you badger Ezio relentlessly. Ezio has never seen you angry, so unpredictable and ferocious.

Tears well in your eyes with every word, every jab on his chest. You don’t wait for him to recover from the initial slap. 

“I was blamed for _your_ actions, beaten, humiliated. I lost everything! My family name is tarnished… I was about to die, Ezio!”

Seeing your stoic disposition crumble is both a humbling and eerie reminder of where Ezio was when he was much younger: hurt, betrayed, and thrust into a world he wasn't ready for or willing to join, all in the midst of a loss so great.

Ezio had hoped you wouldn’t bring this point up, having spent a majority of his time confused and angry with the loss. But he doesn’t object to your own anger, he doesn’t speak, or try to correct you or mention that he was the one who threw the knife. He accepts his faults as you do yours, allowing you to release your pent up emotions the way you did with him.

Your ramblings are lost in your cries and sobs and you barely notice Ezio close the distance between you with an embrace. Too weak to push him away in your most vulnerable state, you let him comfort you. In the cover of darkness, you both find solace in each other’s arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you're reading this, it's not too late for me to simp y'all and say i appreciate the support this story has gained so far. I really never expected my thirst for Ezio to go anywhere, so thank you v much, dear readers
> 
> (✿ ♥‿♥)


End file.
